


The Price of Freedom

by naruhoe



Series: The Ties that Bind [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Things Happen to Good People, Beating, Branding, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy, Humiliation, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Bondage, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Public Humiliation, Roleplay Logs, Sadism, Slavery, Torture, Unrealistic Injuries, Vaguely Medieval Settings, Wax Play, Whipping, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 61,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22155010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naruhoe/pseuds/naruhoe
Summary: 'Are there any sports?''Are you kidding? Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles...''Doesn't sound too bad. I'll try to stay awake.'-The Princess Bride (1987)When the faerie nation of Albion invades the kingdom of Anglia, the human king strikes a desperate deal with the enemy to broker peace. The price? Anglia's sovereignty and the freedom of a certain young knight.(Tags updated with each new chapter. Warnings remain the same.)
Relationships: Armand/Adair, Armand/Alannys, Armand/Ilyas, Ilyas/Adair (mentioned), Original Human Character(s)/Original Faerie Character(s), Original Male Character(s)/Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s)/Original Male Character(s
Series: The Ties that Bind [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727125
Comments: 57
Kudos: 62





	1. Return to the Heartland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A weary warrior makes his way home. But not all things are not as they seem.

The fae came from across the ocean in great ships, their warriors descending like a plague of fair-faced locusts. A more ruthless army the land had never seen. From the kingdom of Anglia, land was what they wanted. Land- and slaves. Those who refused to submit fell to their swords and arrows.

Only the able-bodied were spared, clapped in chains and shipped away across the sea in great ships to toil in the mines beneath Albion. Entire villages were razed to the ground, livestock stolen, people scattered to the four winds, and the countryside was an absolute mess.

It was a matter of months before nearly the entire country had fallen to the faerie masses. True, their troops were orderly and well maintained, but on top of that the fae proved simply harder to kill. Scouts reported superior speed and strength, and even tales of lightly-armored faeries-- sorcerers who walked amongst the fallen of the battlefields, raising the nearly-dead wherever they went. Anglia's people were outnumbered and outmatched. However- for a while they had a brief hope. Even the king had heard tell of a young man who had risen through the ranks of the kingdom's army, successfully leading the people in the fight against the foreign invaders. Where he went, hope bloomed like flowers emerging from the bitter winter.

It was this young man who, at the bidding of King William himself, was currently on his way back to the castle at Anglia's heartland.

***

"My man will be here shortly" the king said to the faerie knight seated across the table from him. The two men were stark opposites of each other. The human was short, even a bit fat from a life well-lived. His ponderous jaw was shadowed by graying beard, originally blond, and he possessed boarish, heavyset features. The knight, on the other hand, was tall, elegant, and rather fierce looking in the way of a fox, or perhaps a wolf. Clad in steel-plated armor, his dark hair was cut short to reveal delicately pointed ears, one of the trademark of the faerie race. His eyes, elegantly shaped, were sharply reminiscent in colour of the very armor he wore, their gaze disdainful.

The knight said nothing, making no indication that he had even heard William speak. The king ground his teeth, but wound up fidgeting with the scroll of parchment on the table before them. It was written in an elegant hand in dark red ink. 

"Your queen will keep her word?" The human king asked.

The knight gave the human king a slightly annoyed look as he leaned back in his chair. "My queen always keeps her word. It is you we have to worry about. Luckily for you, my Queen's terms are simple enough and do not require much sacrifice on your part."

Indeed the terms were simple. Anglia would fall under Albion's control, a kingdom still in name so long as they paid yearly royalties to the invaders who had settled up north. They were _allies_ , albeit that only one of said 'allied' kingdoms received any true benefit from such a partnership. The fae would also cease all hostilities towards Anglia's people, leaving them to live short, peaceful lives. And as a caveat, a little something to sweeten the deal, Albion's queen wanted the hero of the nation as her own. 

"Your queen should be here to sign the treaty." William said, a bit irritably. He wanted to see this woman himself. According to rumour, she was startlingly beautiful, blue eyed with smooth skin so pale it was as if it had been touched by starlight, the sight of her face alone enough to set a man's heart to beating. "It would only be right since she is the one that laid siege to my kingdom."

A smirk touched the knight's lips. The grey eyes went to the man's hefty stomach, covered by a tunic of fine wool and belted in by a fine leather belt with a silver clasp. "I have the feeling that you did not do much other than bark orders from your castle as well. How does that make you any different?"

The king flushed darkly and looked away, resisting the urge to damn the treaty to hell and just hack the smug-faced faerie to bits with his sword. The next half hour was spent in uncomfortable silence.

***

On nights when the moon was full, the common folk wore charms of cold iron and burned wands of rowan in their hearths to protect themselves from the fae.

Red haired Armand himself wore one of these charms still, tucked away against his breast beneath the layers of clothing and armour. In the chill winter air, the charm seemed to burn against his skin, a cold, grounding fire quite unlike the brisk wind which whipped past his face and turned the tips of his nose and ears to cherry red. It was a cold night, that night, and every time one of his men or their mounts exhaled, their breath came out as a cloud of fog. Armand readjusted his grip on his horse's reigns, giving the beast a fond pat to the side of the neck as he squinted up at the golden squares of light in the approaching distance.

The slightly faster clop of horse's hooves, out of rhythm with the rest of the small regiment, warned him of someone approaching from behind. Glancing backwards revealed the rider to be a young man (more of a boy to Armand's eyes) who still hadn't been persuaded to trim the patchy growth of his first beard from his youthful cheeks.

"Sir." The youth said hurriedly, accidentally catching Armand's eyes before he quickly looked slightly off to the side as if to pretend it hadn't happened. Armand, the corners of his mouth turning upwards despite his best efforts, turned back in the saddle, allowing the young man to catch up so that they were riding side by side a few hoofbeats later. "At ease." He murmured, his voice soft enough that he could still catch snatches of his men's conversation through the retreating rush of the water behind them. The Kingsbridge, which they had just crossed, was a landmark worthy of beholding in the sunlight, but in the dark, it was significantly more uneasy to hear the sound of horse's hooves erased by the roar of water on all sides only to behold nothing but blackness on all sides.

"What is it?"

Armand could practically hear the embarrassed shuffling of the young man next to him, but he kept his silence, his grip on the reigns of his horse remaining loose, allowing the animal to decide where to place its feet. The road had since changed from gravel to hard-packed dirt, and now to cobblestone, and the sound of their horses' hooves was louder than Armand would have preferred.

"Well, we- I mean, uh, _the men_ , sir- they've been talking, and..." The lad trailed off into awkward silence. Armand, peering down at the road for lack of better light, patiently steered his mount around a jagged rock which may have lamed the poor beast had she stepped upon it. "Well is it true? What they're saying?" A pause. "Sir." The youth added hurriedly, correcting himself. Up ahead, the castle lights were growing more distinct. At this pace, Armand estimated half an hour's ride more before they reached their destination. Even as they rode, the buildings were starting to emerge around them, just the shacks of the outskirts, pigpens and chicken coops, but they were firmly, undeniably, within city limits.

"I don't know." Murmured Armand, watching the distant castle lights, its rectangular windows like glowing eyes in the dark, the city a haze of crude light below it. Below him, his mare gave a soft whicker, shaking her head agitatedly from side to side. Armand gave that strong neck another soothing pat, his fingers snagging in the coarse strands of her mane. ' _Almost there_.'

The youth misinterpreted this as a question, however, and pressed on. "I mean, sir- Why've we been called back? The King has to know what's happening to his people out there!! We're their only chance! The faeries-"

"I don't know." Armand interrupted, voice much stronger this time, bearing an echo of command. Some of the closest soldiers' heads turned, conversation hushing momentarily before it resumed again, quieter than before. The hand in his horse's mane clenched momentarily before his fingers relaxed, smoothing out over the mare's powerful neck. "I don't know." He repeated, voice softening. "But our King does."

 _He has to._ Thought Armand darkly. _King or no, he'd better have a damn good reason._

Armand said nothing more, and after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the youth, murmuring an apology, fell back. Armand's mare flicked her tail but continued to plod along in the near-darkness, apparently unbothered by the retreat of the other horse. Her rider was a broad-shouldered shadow at the upper flank of the column of men. His head bowed slightly, but his back was straight and proud.

Armand had been 19, a man grown when he gave himself to his country's army. It was hard work, soldiering, a harsh and unforgiving profession, but one was paid a meager amount at the end of every month and there often was bread and gruel, usually a place to sleep and always an objective to be completed. Provided it wasn’t campaign season, most men spent their few days off each month eating and drinking, gambling, going home to visit their mothers, or visiting the whorehouses. Armand, who had no mother to visit and no coin to squander at the brothels, spent much of his time with his sword.

He was now 26, a man comfortable in his own skin; a man well-versed in the art of the sword and shield, a man known for his cool head and ability to command a battlefield, but most infamously, a man, one of the few, who had successfully killed faeries.

The damndest thing about it, though... Armand mused, a frustrated tint to the darkening nature of his thoughts. When they were recalled, the army had been making progress- slowly, at first, but more and more as the men began to pick up on battle tactics, on the weaknesses in fae armor and how just to twist a blade into those gaps... And then, that fateful night, he'd received that damn letter from an exhausted courier on a froth-lathered, nearly-lamed horse. ' _By the order of King William..._ '

There was another thing, though, that had been bothering him. One thing Armand couldn't just find an explanation for... The night the letter had arrived, the faerie soldiers had disappeared. Just gone. Armand had taken the trouble of sending out a pair of scouts to survey the area. Both returned with the same information: Tracks in the dust, the skeletons of abandoned camps, cut trees, and smothered fires. All pointed to the leavings of an army- an army that had vanished in the night, apparently. Paired with the letter which had arrived the same night, the implications alone were enough to make Armand uneasy to his very core.

Armand was a loyal man. God-fearing. A soldier. Devoted to his country; to his people- his king. A knight. Armand was many things, but blind was not one of them. Even so, he still did not know what he would do if his fears proved true.

"Ser Armand."

Armand blinked. Coming back to himself from the winding rabbit-track his thoughts had become was an unusually disorienting experience. It took him a moment more than was customary to compose himself, placing his attention on the source of the voice-- Ser Percival, a powerfully-built man with shoulders like an ox and a jaw like a brick. His dark hair was streaked with grey, but those deep brown eyes of his shone with a keen intelligence.

"We've arrived." The other knight said. Despite the disarming normality of the statement, there was a strange air to the tonality of his voice; a warning within his serious dark eyes. Percival's voice dipped into a murmur, pitched low and urgent. "There are fae soldiers waiting within the gates."

And fae soldiers there were. Not only had they waited within the gates of the castle but they dotted the empty streets here and there. They did nothing but stare at the group of men that passed by on horseback. In the conquered city there was not a human soul to be seen, all shuttered away inside their homes as the enemy quietly came in. Unlike the humans when they fought, there was no pillaging or destruction of the city. Everything was just eerily silent.

As the group went through the front gates of the castle, only the clattering of the horses' hooves on the cobbles were heard. More faerie knights were seen inside, lining the walls and watching with that sharp predatory gaze that they all shared. Their eyes almost glowed in the darkness. All of them had a range of colors but all with a vivid jewel tone intensity.

There was a knight who greeted them outside the stables. He moved silently even though he was clad in an almost shimmering sort of metal armor. His hair was a light shade of gold, worn long and braided partially out of his face.

"I will take your horses and weapons from here." Said the knight by means of greetings. "Per orders of your king."

He arched a pale brow as if waiting for some form of protest from the proud human warriors. "You will comply."

Low, mutinous grumbling erupted among the soldiers, many of whom had their hands on their weapons, road-weary faces twisted into expressions of fear and hate- most often a mix of the two. Armand found himself all too aware of his surroundings, his fingers all but itching to close around the hilt of his blade, but he felt almost as if he had been frozen in place, one internal connection after the other clicking into place.

 _Fae within the city... The letter from the King... The faerie army's overnight disappearance..._ Nothing about this situation was a coincidence. Which meant that Armand, worse than blind, was a fool, and he had walked his men willingly into the jaws of a trap.

"What is the meaning of this?" Demanded a new voice. A tall knight with a face like a thundercloud shouldered his way to the front, apparently having slid off of his horse. Ser Corbyn's grip was so tight around the hilt of his sword that one could hear the metal of his gauntlets beginning to creak. "This city is under the sovereignty of King William. You faerie bastards have no place here- not now or ever!"

A low wave of rumbling agreement swept through the men, accompanied by the slick slide of metal against polished leather. Armand could practically hear the tension ratcheting up with each passing second. This was no battlefield; no razed village- This was an occupied city. Were a fight to break out, especially given the number of fae in such close range, the results could very well prove disastrous.

"Ser Corbyn, sheathe your sword." Armand's stern voice echoed off of the buildings around them. The redhead slid from his mare, taking hold of the reigns as he met the other knight's gaze steadily. Corbyn's eyes were wide and incensed, the look in them almost resembling betrayal as Armand stepped forward and slowly, measuredly, handed the reigns of his horse off to the smug faerie knight standing a few paces away from the group.

"Remember where you are." Armand said warningly, conducting a slow sweep across the faces of his men. He met every eye he could, and though it was mainly anger that he encountered in the eyes that stared back at him, there were those few who seemed to understand what he was trying to get at- Ser Percival's serious gaze; a grizzled veteran with his-one eyed stare; a young man with a patchy ginger beard...

"My men will stay outside of the castle." Said Armand, meeting the eyes of the faerie, and his ocean gaze was unyielding as steel even as his hands dropped to the buckle of his swordbelt. "They will remain armed."

"But of course," the golden haired faerie consented, though his eyes did go to the knight that had made the outburst. Ser Corbyn. "However, if your men decide to cause an... issue, I have orders to slay whoever causes dissent. Please make that known to your daft looking friends, hmm?"

He reached over to take the swordbelt from Armand. It sagged from the heavy weight of the sword still attached to it. The knight gestured for Armand to make his way inside. "I believe you are to go to the study. Your king is waiting for you there."

The knight didn’t really wait for Armand to enter by himself. A third faerie appeared from the darkness, moving just as silently as the golden haired one did. This one was just as handsome, with a ruddy complexion and bright blue eyes. He said nothing and gestured with one hand for Armand to follow him. Some of the men in Armand's entourage bristled at the fact of a faerie leading their commander into the King’s castle, but none of them dared to move.

It was a brisk walk inside and up a winding staircase to get to the study. The copper haired faerie still said nothing but kept his right hand on the pommel of his sword at all times should the human he was escorting cause any sort of trouble. After they came to the third floor, it was a short walk down a dimly lit hallway and to the left to walk through the doorway that led to the study. The wall sconces were glowing with gentle fire that came from beeswax candles, a definite luxury that few could afford. Only the quarters that the king was always in were lit in such a way. The rest of the castle was lit with candles made from tallow, though they did not burn as cleanly and let off a lot of smoke and odor.

"It took you long enough" King William grunted out in a gruff voice, getting up out of the chair he was seated in as Armand entered. The black haired fae that accompanied the king remained seated, instead eyeing the warrior with the same disdainful gaze as before.

Try as he might, Armand could not help but keep the surprise off of his face at being recognized in a manner that was at once familiar and disgruntled- and by the King, no less. His brain was a mess of conflicting thoughts, and though his first impulse was to drop to one knee, his second thought was of the letter, of his faerie escort-- Of the porcelain-faced fae sitting in the secondary seat of honor at the head of the table at this very moment.

"Your majesty."

Armand settled upon a stiff bow, fumbling and uncertain compared to the graceful bends of the waist he knew the nobility critiqued with impunity. He had met King William IV once before, though "met" was a strong word for listening to a speech in the crowded streets below Williamsburg's cathedral. The knight hesitated to straighten, but straighten he did, chain mail clinking and sliding heavily against itself beneath the layers of his armor, a mixture of hardened leather and plate.

The knight's eyes went immediately to the dark-haired faerie sitting in the chair opposite his king. Armand immediately disliked the cunning glint of the fae's eyes. He could not read the knight, for his posture was impeccable, his face equally inscrutable. The only thing that offered any clue whatsoever to the situation were the papers spread across the magnificent oak table, and even those offered little insight, for Armand was a slow and rudimentary reader who still was incapable of writing the letters of his own name.

The study was warmly lit, both by beeswax candles and the fire burning in the yawning hearth in the corner. Intricate tapestries lined its walls and firelight flickered across the plush carpet before the hearth, illuminating its luxurious geometric patterns. The light reflected off of Armand's mud-spattered greaves, sending points of light to flicker across the well-swept stone floor.

The firelight caught the red flame of the human knight's hair and beard, dirty as they were from battle and road dust.

"My men and I traveled as fast as we could. If I might ask a question, my liege," Armand nodded sharply at the dark-haired faerie, unable to suppress the anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach any longer. The memories of razed villages filled his mind's eye. Indeed, the scent of the pyres, little better than mass graves, his men had been forced to burn along the way still clung to his clothes and skin, the soot to his clothing.

"Why have you allowed those who slaughtered your people like dogs to enter the capital?"

"That is not for you to question." William told Armand, a hint of warning in his voice as he took his seat again. The wood creaked under his weight. He had not always been like this, but his weight had gradually grown over the years as he grew accustomed himself to a life sitting on a throne rather than on horseback. He could hardly mount a horse these days, body ridden with gout and strained by long-healed injuries.

"It seems to me that you don’t fully comprehend the situation at hand." The black haired faerie said from his seat, rubbing at his smooth chin. He took in Armand's ragged and dirty appearance with a pointed expression. "But such is to be expected from such an _untamed_ individual as yourself."

The king gave the knight a warning glance but said nothing to contradict him. The way his shoulders slumped was a sign of defeat. But through defeat came prosperity, and if it was thing the faeries were known for, it was that once an oath was made, it could not be broken. The document before them was just a formality for his side of things.

"Ilyas here is an envoy of Queen Alannys." William said as he gestured to the knight still seated at the opposite end of the table, watching Armand with his cold grey eyes. "He is here to oversee the negotiations for peace. Once this treaty is signed, it will ensure peace within our lands and that no more of our people are harmed." 

"Your signature is needed here on the document, as you've lead the fighting in my stead." William continued, gesturing expansively at the hefty sheath of parchment laid out before them. "Upon Anglia's surrender, the queen has promised no more bloodshed. The people will be let to live, and Anglia will still have a King to rule over her. This may be difficult for you to understand, but we must think about the greater good, Ser Armand."

Armand did his best not to bristle at the knight's not-so-subtle insinuation that he lacked basic reasoning skills from both the faerie bastard and the king himself. With everybody in the room now seated, save himself, the knight took a step forward towards the treaty. There was silence save for the muted crackling of the fire across the room.

His eyes flicked down to the rolls of parchment spread out across the table. The pages themselves were the finest quality vellum, a far cry from even the crisp stationary the king's letter had been written on. The words written upon those pages were equally immaculate, line after line of elegant words in the smoothest black ink, written in a hand that looped and curved, dotted by the occasional period or the curl of a comma.

He recognized the shape of the King's name many times, dotted here and there throughout the treaty, along with the foreign letters he assumed to be the faerie ruler's name-- Queen Alannys. But the rest of it? Armand knew from a look that it would take him the better part of a year to read this. Even when he had received the letter, that fateful night, it had been Ser Percival, who, being the bastard of some noble retainer himself, who had read it out loud to the rest of the tent.

It seemed too good to be true, to be frank. Armand was well-versed in the rule that when things seemed too good to be true, they generally were. But peace? Peace was something that Armand, the memories of entire slaughtered communities fresh in his mind, wanted desperately to believe in. Peace was something the smallfolk needed.

The only question which remained was, 'At what price?' And though something in him cried out a warning when he took his eyes from the words he did not have the skill to read, Armand was forcibly reminded of the day and night he had spent on his knees in prayer on the stone floor of the cathedral; his bloody knees the morning after when he took his vows in front of the head of his order, and rose, a knight of his country.

He had pledged his life to the cause a long time ago. He could not falter now.

Running the pads of his fingers across the smooth edge of the table, Armand looked up once more, a muscle in his jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching. "I was never taught to write." He said, thumb smoothing in small circles over the table's polished surface.

Ilyas's expression grew more mocking as it became clear the human was dangerously close to being illiterate. This man was champion of the kingdom? A man who couldn't even read the document signing his life away? The thought was laughable. He couldn't wait to tell his queen of such an unheard of thing. Instead of laughing, he held his tongue and waited for the man to finish scanning the document but his understanding of it was certainly unclear.

However, the faerie could not hold back his bark of laughter after the human went ahead and actually said it. "You've let fool lead your armies? A man who cannot even write his own name? Surely you have more pride for your kingdom than that!" Ilyas said mockingly, those grey eyes of his glittering coldly.

King William coughed and bristled a bit, giving the lad a comforting pat on the forearm. "He's a great strategist and an excellent fighter. Give him credit where it is due." 

Fingers withdrawing from the table as they curled into a tight fist, Armand's jaw clenched hard, teeth pressing with such force against into another that he felt his jaw begin to ache. A dull heat rose at the back of his neck, heating the tips of his ears to a deep red.

Ostensibly, he had had taken far worse taunts than this, assertions against his honor, against the quality of his leadership and experience, but with those jabs, at least, he had been able to prove wrong. He had no way to defend himself against this.

Ilyas gave a short bow in Armand's direction. "My apologies, ser." He said in a tone that couldn't be mistaken as anything else but mocking.

Dipping his quill in the ink, William set it to the vellum, signing his name in several elegant loops on the line meant for him. "Let's finalize this, then. I don't need you two drawing swords in my presence." He then passed the quill back to Ilyas who dipped its tip into ink and signed his own name in a similar looping script, although far more compact.

Armand was the last to receive the quill, the faerie's eyes glittering with unrestrained malice as he passed it off. "Surely you know how to mark an X." 

The knight, Ilyas, had pale grey eyes. Whereas before, the faerie had made some attempt at concealing his true feelings, those eyes now practically glittered with unveiled spite. It was clear that the other had no illusions of respect for Armand, that he thought him stupid and unfit to lead. Armand briefly entertained a scenario in his head where he drew his sword and spattered the pointy-eared bastard's blood across the parchment- signature enough to his true feelings about this uneasy truce.

Outwardly, Armand donned a mask to hide his inner feelings, but he could not rid himself of the disquiet thrumming within even as he accepted the quill.

Copying the other two's method of tapping the quill against the inkwell as to get rid of the excess ink, Armand brought its tip to the parchment, where, for a brief moment, it hovered a centimeter above. Jaw tightening, Armand lowered it the rest of the way.

 _Scratch. Scratch_.

Armand's fate was sealed. His signature had been signed under the view of two witnesses and it could not be denied that Armand was forced in any way to sign the document.

"My queen will be most pleased with the decision you have come to" Ilyas said smoothly as he picked up the parchment and held it up to inspect it for any further details that were missing. Nothing was out of place. With its completion, peace would indeed come to Anglia. Setting the parchment back down, Ilyas passed it over to the king to do as he pleased with it.

"As per our written agreement, the kingdom of Anglia will remain under your rule but you will be overseen by elected faerie officials hailing from the kingdom of Albion at your choosing. Military power will fall to Albion as well. The humans of Anglia will face no more persecution at the hands of Albion."

The faerie read that off from the parchment in an abbreviated version and then leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. At that moment two more faerie knights entered the room, standing on either side of the door to block it.

"All of that for just one little thing in exchange" Ilyas said, eyes sliding to Armand. "My queen has many plans in store for you, boy. I hope you're ready for a very, _very_ long journey ahead. I assume you don't have much to pack, so we will depart immediately- with or without your cooperation."

In that moment, Armand felt very much like he'd just received a punch to the gut, one that forced all the air from his lungs and knocked him to the hard ground. He could feel his body preparing itself to respond, whether to fight or to flee he didn't know, but he couldn't move, couldn't find the will to breathe. His pulse quickened, a burst of galvanizing energy thrumming through the pathways of his veins. The room seemed larger, all the little details magnified. Every little sound. Every movement.

The slam of the door rang in his ears, and he found himself excruciatingly aware of the clink of armor behind him. His King would not meet his eyes.

Armand took a single step backwards, almost unable to control the sudden dull pain at the center of his chest. Despite the near-smothering heat of the room, the iron talisman beneath his clothes seemed to burn against his skin. "I fought for you." Armand said softly, hoarsely. It wasn't a question, but a bare-faced statement, almost painful in its nakedness.

"I would have _died_ for you." Armand said, voice stronger. With no reply from William (-His _King_ , the man who had betrayed him so thoroughly he had not even bothered to _tell_ him-) who continued to stare down at the papers in his hands, something seemed to break within the knight. With a tremendous ' _BANG_!' he slammed a gauntleted fist onto the table, scattering the quill right out of the inkwell, which tipped over and rolled slowly to the right, spilling its contents across the table.

" _Damn you_!" Armand roared. "Say something, why don't you??"

"I did it because I had to!" William roared back and got up to his feet sharply. Even in his older years he stood a head taller than Armand, as well as some stone broader. "Any king would be a fool to pass up such an offer! If the queen wants a single man as her price for peace then you should damn well bet I'll hand you over to them. I would do it again and _again_ , boy!"

The king jabbed a fat finger into Armand's breastplate with a dull thud. His face was pink beneath his bristling beard. "A commander sacrifices for the greater good and that is what you're going to do, _Ser Armand._ If you have to die for Anglia, then you will. That is your fate!"

Thoroughly winded by the tirade, he sat down heavily in his chair, which creaked dangerously under his weight.

Ilyas of course was amused as he watched the whole situation play out before his eyes. "To your king's defense, all of this was stated in the treaty. It is not his fault that you failed to read that part, boy" He said, around a wolflike grin. His canines were slightly elongated and sharp looking, much like a cat's.

Looking to the two knights stationed at the door, Ilyas waved a hand lazily at the knight. "Grab him and take him outside. The use of force is allowed should be make a fuss" Ilyas ordered, and got up to his feet, smoothly avoiding the puddle of ink that gradually grew larger and larger.

The knights advanced on Armand. One had a pair of manacles and length of rope fixed to his belt. Both moved with an efficient speed and grace that made them such formidable opponents in the battlefield. The one on the right grabbed Armand's arm and jerked him forwards towards him so that he could be properly shackled.

"It is my advice that you should go quietly." Ilyas continued. "Of course, if you choose not to, my men will be just as happy to beat it out of you instead."

The young knight, furious and off-balance, resisted the pull of the faerie who had taken hold of his arm, his entire body tense, straining towards the red-faced man sitting heavily in his chair. "I see no king." He said coldly, blue eyes seeming to burn. "Only a coward. And a liar."

Abruptly allowing himself to be pulled forward by the enthusiastically-straining knight, Armand, both taller than the faerie and shockingly light-footed for being clad in full plate armor, shoved into the other's personal space and smashed his forehead down into the other's handsome face- foolishly left uncovered by the helmet he'd neglected to wear.

His adversary's nose broke beneath the force of the blow, the bridge collapsing as the newly-fractured bone popped out of place, squashed unattractively to the left. Armand was quick to drive a steel-plated elbow into the reeling knight's vulnerable jaw, jerking his arm from the loosened grasp even as the other knight cursed and rushed him with full intent to subdue with extreme prejudice.

Armand proved to be a worthier adversary than the three fae had first taken him for. He was a strong man, muscular, broad-shouldered and still in the prime of his life, having honed himself into a weapon through years of rigorous training and application. More than that, however, he was furious. Even weaponless, his punches bruised, shattered, and drew blood. He fought like a man possessed.

Unfortunately for him, full plate and chain was _heavy_ , and these were no ordinary opponents. It was true what they said about the fae.. That they were stronger. Faster. It seemed like they could go on forever. The only weaknesses Armand had found was that with all their natural strength, they trended in attitude towards the massively overconfident.

In this situation, neither of those things proved useful once the trio ceased to underestimate him, which occurred shortly after he nearly stabbed one of them in the eye with their own dagger, opening a thin line of blood across a pale cheek.

The faerie who just had their face slashed snarled in rage as an inky blue line of blood dribbled down his fair cheek. He responded with a ferocious attack of his own, grabbing a fistful of Armand's dusty and scraggly hair and jerked him close so that he could viciously punch his face a few times with a gloved hand.

Knocked from his hand, the knife clattered against the floor. Occupied already with the snarling fae trying to beat his face in, Armand, whose nose had begun to bleed, an uncomfortably ticklish sensation, allowed himself to be shoved into a full mount. Tucking his chin in, Armand grimaced through the tiny gap between his protectively-raised forearms as the faerie managed to land another glancing blow off of the top of his head.

A second later, he bucked his hips. His opponent fell forward. Armand seized one of the fae's arms and curled in. With another buck of his hips combined with a roll, the fae's back collided with the stone floor with an audible ' _oof_ '. Armand, on top, had no hesitations in sinking a punishing fist, then an elbow, into the other's weak areas- namely, his face, as most everything else was covered in shiny armor he could not breach without a sword--

A glint caught his eye. Armand reconsidered. A damn good knife would also do the trick.

Scooping it from the floor where it lay, blue blood streaking its silver edge, Armand enjoyed the panic that briefly flickered within the faerie's eyes when he, too, caught that silver glint, plunged it into the crack he knew to be just below the breastplate. The faerie howled. Music to Armand's ears. However, due to the man's thrashing, about a third of the blade broke off, still buried in the widened crack in his armor. Not a fatal wound, but it was sure to be if the fool kept wiggling about like that.

His heartbeat loud in his ears, Armand raised the jagged-ended knife to finish the job. Broken or no, the knife would still serve its purpose buried in the pointy-eared bastard's throat, inky blue lifeblood bubbling out around it.

Then- a tremendous pain in the back of his head. And darkness.

***

"Fucking cunt!" Ilyas spat as Armand toppled to the ground, the back of his head already oozing blood from the heavy blow to his skull. Tossing the chair leg to the side, he kicked Armand aside to look at the fallen soldier who had faced the brunt of the human’s desperate attack.

Ilyas had been expecting some resistance from the young man from the moment he'd come into the room. While he was an illiterate fool, Ilyas could tell a good warrior from a bad one. Judging off of the way Armand moved and the practical nature of his plate armour, he knew the human wouldn't go quietly. This was, of course, disregarding the man's formidable battlefield reputation, as the fool had left his army outside. Fortunately, any fool could be taken care of while his back was turned.

"The queen will be lucky I don't kill the bastard before she gets him!" The injured fae on the ground panted, bleeding rather profusely from his nose and mouth. More inky blood seeped through the gap in his plate mail and around the broken off section of sword still lodged in his side.

Satisfied that the man wouldn't die, Ilyas returned his attention to Armand, giving him a kick in the stomach to roll him onto his back. "The queen has ordered that he arrive whole in body and mind." He said, allowing the men to draw their own conclusions from that statement.

He and the other knight began to strip the unconscious human of his armor, chain mail, and padded garments that laid beneath it until he was clad only in his tunic and pants. Ilyas ripped a shred of fabric from the hem of Armand's tunic and jammed it into the unconscious man's mouth to serve as a gag, using Armand's own belt to secure it around the back of his head. As a final precaution, they flipped him onto his stomach to shackle his hands behind his back.

"I bid you a good evening, your highness." Ilyas said with a mockery of an elegant bow to the king who still sat in his chair, not uttering a single word. _Pathetic_ , Ilyas thought. He wasted no more time, grabbing Armand by the back of his tunic and hauling him out roughly. He had the strength to carry the man, but why carry him when he could be dragged? The other soldier helped his injured comrade up and followed their commander out of the room.

Because of the entourage that their new prisoner had traveled with, Ilyas wished to avoid them so that be could get on the road faster. If Armand's men were to see him unconscious on the back of a horse, an all-out brawl would take place. Ilyas's desire to get out of the filthy dump of Williamsburg was great, but he held his patience and avoided the front entrance, exiting out the back where supplies and other goods were normally delivered to the kitchen. Outside in the chilly winter darkness, waited the horses, along with a small force of faerie soldiers. Once Armand was slung over the back of one of the horses, the faerie envoy set off and disappeared down the foggy streets.

Instead of returning across the sea to Albion, it would be a short three week journey north to the city of Stonehaven, one of the first cities the fae had conquered in Anglia, and the new seat of power in Queen Alannys's conquered lands where she had assembled her court for the winter. They would take the Kingsroad from Williamsburg all the way up to Stonehaven, a ride that hopefully remain free of interruptions. At least for tonight, with their human quarry unconscious, it would be. 

When Armand awoke, he only would find a pack of wolves eagerly awaiting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, we've got some amazing fanart art in here now from Soft_Toasts, who completely made my day with their interpretation of Armand! Check out their Twitter at https://twitter.com/Soft_Toasts


	2. Interlude: The Journey North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the treaty signed and its provisions in tow, the company rides North for Stonehaven.

'Whole in body and mind' was a phrase Armand would become intimately acquainted with, those next three weeks. It was often quoted when he found himself on the verge of blissful unconsciousness, or, more rarely ( _much_ more rarely), when Ilyas felt someone had gone too far.

If Armand had disliked grey-eyed Ilyas before, by the end of their three-week tenure, he learned to feel an entirely new level of hatred for the faerie. Ilyas was not so fond of partaking in the beatings his men would routinely administer whenever they felt Armand was talking too much, looking at them wrong, or when they were plain bored and had made camp for the night. One such faerie who was particularly fond of finding a reason to beat Armand bloody was the knight Armand had stabbed the night of his capture. He was forever being teased by his comrades on account of being overcome and injured by a mere human, and as a result, was always particularly cruel whenever he had an excuse.

Ilyas, however, was something else. The further they traveled north, the colder it became. One of the first things Ilyas had done was to deprive Armand of his beard the first time he administered a bath in icy snowmelt a ways outside of their campsite, claiming that he smelled 'worse than a dog'. The shaving had come afterwards, a ruthless scraping of his beard from his face and neck which forced Armand to bare his throat to the wretched fae, as Ilyas staunchly refused to allow Armand anywhere near a knife and seldom freed his captive's hands, even to piss- the experience of which was humiliating, at first, but grew alarmingly normal as time went on. Worse, the shaving was routine. Twice every week. Armand, who hadn't been without a beard since before he was capable of growing one, felt like a shorn sheep.

Another favorite game was to wake him at odd hours of the night, usually with a kick. Always with the kicking, like a disobedient dog to be taught a lesson. After a week and a half of this, Armand found himself starting to stumble over his own feet when they tied him via a length of rope behind the horses, as was routine. He would fall into small lapses of consciousness when they stopped, halfway between awareness and the unconscious. These, too, were always remedied with a kick. When he could sleep, Armand dreamed of killing the lot of them, Ilyas in particular. They were wretched, restless dreams that always left him silently uneasy.

By the end of those three weeks, he was exhausted, physically and mentally. Exhausted, but whole- as instructed. Armand's only saving grace was his fury. No matter how chill the wind, or the snow that fell from the sky, that anger kept him warm the journey to Stonehaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave any kudos or comments as they come to you! It always makes my day to hear back from everyone :) Thanks for taking the time to read.
> 
> More fanart at the end of the chapter from Soft_Toasts, this time of Ilyas. Enjoy!


	3. The Queen's Court at Stonehaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armand's arrival in Stonehaven and his first encounter with Queen Alannys of Albion.

To the travel-weary band of fae, the snow-covered walls of the city of Stonehaven were a welcome sight indeed. Hovels and hasty lean-tos had been constructed outside of the walls belonging to the humans evicted from their homes in order to make way for the new faerie tenants inhabiting the city. Stonehaven was situated at the foothills of the Blue Mountain range, the city cut in half by a great river which had been diverted into a series of canals within the city itself. Perhaps half a day’s ride North of the city, up into the foothills, were several productive mines rich in silver.

Faerie forces had found a stronghold in Stonehaven’s keep, thus taking over the North half of the city, while its human inhabitants found themselves pushed South of the river. It was in this direction that Ilyas led his road weary-men and equally tired horses. People stopped to stare at the sight of the red haired hostage being half dragged along behind the horse Ilyas rode. Ilyas wished that he had more than three weeks with the human but perhaps his queen would be kind enough to allow him a few hours free with Armand. One of the first things he would do is cut out the man's tongue, as he had threatened on numerous occasions.

Ilyas warmed himself with the novelty of such an idea as they continued to ride, the snow falling in thick clumps on the ground. The effect made their entrance curiously muted, along with the rest of the usual noises of a city, and it was almost forebodingly quiet as they rode in. Stonehaven’s keep was an almost ideal place for their queen to set up court. The fortress itself had been hewn from dark-coloured granite, a formidable structure both in appearance and function. As they passed beneath the front gates, Ilyas saw fit to draw Armand’s attention to the dessicated corpse swinging high up from the gibbet, picked mostly clean by the crows by now, though the head had been dipped in tar to preserve the face of Stonehaven’s late lord. 

"Take a good look, cunt. That could be you swinging up there soon enough." Ilyas said mockingly to Armand. They soon passed into the interior courtyard of the fortress. The wet snow had turned the dirt there into a mucky slush that Ilyas was more than happy to make Armand slough through. In the middle of this courtyard was the fortress’s well, which supplied fresh water to its inhabitants year round, along with the stables and pen for the sheep and goats that huddled together in a sheltered corner.

Ilyas’s boots sank several squishy inches into the muck as he dismounted, making his way over to his shivering captive. He secured a rope around the man's neck, making sure that it was uncomfortably tight. The ice cold shackles were brought out again, securing Armand's arms behind his back. Without another word, Ilyas jerked on the rope harshly and began to head inside, leaving the horses to the stableboys.

They passed through the entryway into a warmly-lit corridor. Tapestries lined its walls and the windows were tightly shuttered to prevent the chilly air or snow from penetrating the castle. Wall sconces filled with glowing orbs of light illuminated the space, though there were no signs of candles. It had to be done by magic.

Ilyas continued to lead Armand along until they reached the Great Hall that currently served as the Queen's throne room. Of course it had been richly decorated to fit her tastes. More tapestries hung on the walls depicting mythical scenes of serpent-like creatures fighting with furred beasts. Benches padded with lavish furs lined either side of the long room and in front of those were wooden tables to match. A roaring fire crackled in the wall to the left, making sure the room remained at a pleasant temperature.

At the head of the room on a slightly elevated platform sat a young woman on an ornately carved wooden throne of densely-grained heavy dark wood. She looked young at first glance, yet there was a sort of ageless quality to her features, though it was abundantly clear that she was devastatingly beautiful. Hair the color of snow flowed down her shoulders to her supple waist. Her eyes glowed with the same colorful intensity as all members of her race, but they were a vivid cobalt color, deep blue like the night sky. Her skin was pale as alabaster and her lips were full and red. Clad in a woolen gown of light gold trimmed with ermine fur along the neckline and cuffs, she sat in her throne with all the poise of a cat.

Ilyas walked proudly up the center aisle towards his queen, unceremoniously kicking Armand in the back of his knees to send him sprawling on the stones. Rope still grasped in one hand, he dropped to one knee, bowed his head, and touched his heart before extending a hand towards the sky. "My queen." Ilyas greeted. "I have delivered what you have asked."

There were several fae in this room, most of them lining the walls or gathered in two groups on either side of the throne room. Dressed warmly in well-made clothing which tended to exaggerate the long, slender aesthetic of their race, it was clear that all of these faeries were high-ranking. Many wore weapons at their waists, and though some were little more than the slim, elegant rapiers most often used for dueling, others were obviously weapons of war.

Armand seemed not to feel the impact of the stones against his knees at all. This could have been for several factors, the less obvious being due to the nature of his soaked and raggedy trousers, his legs, below the knee, were all but numb. He could not feel his feet at all. The second being that the moment he had looked up, his attention was immediately taken by the visage of the woman sitting upon the throne.

Without a shadow of a doubt, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Armand, for a brief moment, found himself captivated by that austere beauty, like the untouched perfection of a snowy winter’s day. Then, those cool, cobalt eyes found his, and Armand got the distinct and uneasy impression that whatever treatment he had experienced beneath Ilyas was soon to be a far dream. He met her eyes quite accidentally, at first, but even as that gaze sharpened, he found himself unable and unwilling to look away. In the uneasy silence, the line of Armand’s mouth thinned, the proud line of his jaw tightening.

Queen Alannys didn't say anything for a few moments as Ilyas dumped the ragged man at her feet. He was young, perhaps in his twenties by human standards. Coppery stubble shadowed his jaw and his dirty hair was a snarled mess. His clothing was just as filthy and ragged, completely worn out from the journey to Stonehaven. The man would have been the sort to be overlooked if it wasn't for the anger in his eyes and the proud way he held his shoulders.

"I have been awaiting your arrival for quite some time." Alannys said quietly, though with the near-silence of the room, she did not have to speak very loudly at all for her voice to carry. "Though now that you are here, I must say that I expected... someone older.”

Finding Armand to be staring unashamedly at the queen, Ilyas grabbed him by the back of his hair and forced his head down. "You will not look the queen in the eye." He snarled at the human before he turned his attention back to Alannys. "The pup has no manners.” He declared, somehow sneering and apologetic at once. “If my lady permits, I would be most happy to teach him some.”

Alannys smiled coldly, delicate fingers tapping the arm of her throne. "Your assistance may be required yet, Captain Ilyas. But you have done us all a good deed. See to it that you take tonight to recover from your journey."

"Of course, my queen." Ilyas said, with another flourishing bow. He handed off the human’s rope to another guard, gleaming and fully armored, before taking his leave.

The Queen settled back against her throne, resting her delicate chin on the palm of one hand. Her new pet would have to be thoroughly cleaned and groomed before she would even think about touching him, the snarls cut from his hair and his whole person thoroughly checked for pests.

"How old are you, boy?" Alannys asked idly.

Still manacled behind his back, Armand’s fingers curled into fists. It was an unconscious motion, one that he couldn’t even feel, given the numb nature of his extremities. He could still feel Ilyas’s fingers in his hair despite that the man’s footsteps had long since faded off into the distance. 

"Six and twenty." Armand said, not quite loud enough to be heard at the back of the room. In regards to Alannys’s title, he said nothing. After all, he owed no fealty to this Queen. He owed loyalty to no lord, anymore, and would just as happily never again. The significance of the act had been well and truly spoiled for him.

When looking upon that beautiful face, it was all too easy to forget that this was the face which had commanded the deaths of hundreds of innocent men, women, and children in cold blood. 

His gaze resting upon her painted red lips, Armand made an attempt to associate this beauty with acrid scent of rising smoke; with the soldiers, good men he had laid to rest in mass pyres; with the cruel wounds inflicted in the still bodies of the common folk left to rot where they had fallen.

"Six and twenty" Alannys repeated softly. After another moment of further studying, she raised a hand up and a servant immediately appeared, bowing deeply at the waist.

"My queen?"

"Take him away to be cleaned and prepared for me. Burn his clothing while you're at it and check him for lice. I don't want my court a breeding ground for vermin." Alannys said, her blue eyes still on Armand. Yes, once he was clean and dry, Anglia’s hero would make a pretty canvas indeed, she decided. With all that lovely pale skin, she didn’t know where best to leave her mark...


	4. Mark of Ownership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alannys decides a more personal touch is in order for her new pet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic depictions of violence (branding).

Two knights assisted in handling the human captive's transition from the Great Hall, gripping him by arms to haul him from the great hall. Down a few hallways and down a flight of stairs they went, eventually entering the kitchens of the fortress. In a little side room, mostly bare of supplies and tables, there was a convenient drain in the floor located in the center of the stone floor. Armand was positioned above this drain, a length of chain securing his shackled ankles to a ring in the floor. After several days of his arms being bound tightly behind his back, when his bonds were cut, the sting of blood rushing back to his blood-deprived arms brought tears to his eyes momentarily. One of the guards remained in the room, the other taking a position outside of the door as a squat, rather matronly-looking faerie entered, armed with a bucket, a cake of soap, and bristly brush.

She used a knife to cut away Armand's stinking and tattered clothing, tossing the shreds into the fire. He bore the cutting-away of his clothing with nary the bat of an eye. Truthfully, he was relieved to be rid of the stinking rags. Curiously enough, however, the iron talisman on its length of fine chain around his neck was allowed to stay, remaining largely untouched throughout the process. Armand was silently relieved for that, though any trace of goodwill he felt towards the brusque matron assigned to his cleaning-up was soon lost with the far too thorough washing she administered. Far, _far_ too thorough. 

His entire body tensed when she wrapped a hand around his soft cock and began to clean it with the fastidiousness of someone far too familiar with such things than begot a woman of her age. However, even that proved to be nothing compared to the stinging paste she administered to his already-raw skin. 

After a few buckets of cold water were poured over him, she began to scrub him with a cake of soap and a brush, scraping the filth from his body until he was almost entirely pink. His nether region was seen to with particular care, though, mercifully, she used a cloth rather than the coarse brush from before. The next step of the process involved a jar of some mystery paste that the serving woman applied to his his legs, chest, and underarms. Armand quickly found out that it burned on contact, enduring the sensation with clenched teeth until the woman saw fit to wash it off.

"Our queen likes her pets soft as a babe's bum" She said, with a smile that showed she was missing a few teeth. Aside from untangling what knots she could and cutting the rest, she left the hair on his head, lightened several shades with the absence of grime, alone, instead tackling his face with a razor to rid of the stubble.

Dried off, hands rechained behind his back, he was led naked away by the same guards who had escorted him there. They traveled two floors up through a circular staircase and into a room that more or less resembled a converted dungeon. A table with restraints sat off to the side; several sets of chains hung from the ceiling beams and were affixed to walls, and a brazier burned in the corner, heating both the room and the various pokers that were sitting within it. More forebodingly, there were several mysterious cabinets up against one of the walls.

The knights secured the struggling human in the middle of the room. His arms were left shackled behind him and his legs were affixed to shackles anchored in to a loop in the ground.

The opening of the door gave a glimpse into a lavishly decorated bedroom before silhouette of a woman blocked that almost entirely. The door shut behind her, the dim firelight giving her silvery hair and pale complexion a warm glow. Dressed in the same furred gown she had worn at dinner, she stood there for a moment with her hands folded demurely in front of her, simply watching her trussed up captive.

"You clean up very well. I can no longer smell you from several feet away." Alannys remarked as she strode into the room to conduct a closer inspection of her captive. She ran a hand over his hard chest, over the smooth planes of hard-earned muscle. "Quite lovely.”

Armand, after a moment of watching her back, the look of a wary animal in his blue eyes, decided that it was a sensation that he did not like in the slightest. It was not often that he felt vulnerable like this, but with Alannys's hand on him, this was undoubtedly one of those moments. 

Receiving no comment from the man, the Queen traced her fingers along the skin bordering the iron talisman that Armand wore around her neck. This close she could smell the metallic tang of the charm, and avoided it accordingly. Light bruises dappled Armand's skin from where Ilyas had taken his fun.

Taking the masculinity from her captive was all part of the fun, and his smooth skin received a soft pat of approval from her. Her fingers went down to feel between his legs, fondling his cock and drawing a twitch of surprise from her stoic captive.

"You'll learn to become hard and carry it all throughout your being in my presence. If you present me with a soft cock then you will be punished" Alannys said and reached up to cup Armand's smooth cheek, tilting his head to look at her. She was tall but a little bit shorter than him. "You will ask me or beg me for that matter for permission to do anything while in my presence. If you wish to spill your seed you will ask. If you wish to eat or drink, you will ask. If you need to take a piss, you will ask my permission."

She coyly ran her fingers through his damp tousled hair. "Autumn hair. What a rare thing it is in a place like this.” She said admiringly, kneeling down to wrap her hand around his cock again.

"We need to start your lessons in self control" Alannys said, and without warning, licked a long stripe up the length of it, those night sky eyes trained on his face to observe his reaction.

A sharp breath escaped the man when a hot, lewd tongue laved across the exposed flesh, sensitive flesh which had gone shamefully long before this without any sort of stimulation. Armand focused on his breathing. In- and out to calm the rising beat of his heart within his chest. The clenching muscles of his jaw, on the other hand, were a different story, already starting to ache from how hard he was gritting his teeth. Her touch was unwelcome, crossing lines and confusing his first impressions of this dungeon.

"You're a quiet little thing aren't you?" Alannys said softly, sounding more amused than frustrated. Letting go of his cock, he straightened up, breathing in the deep masculine scent of him, warm and spicy. For a human he most certainly had his appeal. Humans were always so much more rugged than her faerie counterparts. It was that nature that had ever drawn Alannys to them.

Tilting his chin up, Alannys looked him in the eye. She could see the rising shame and the concentration of trying to suppress his own reactions in the blue of them. He was still trying to resist her. Weariness from the journey also lined his features. A kinder woman would have let him eat and drink and then rest but not Alannys. Those were luxuries that Armand would have to work for, and right now he was doing a good job at not earning it.

"Why don’t you speak?" Alannys whispered, pressing her lips to the corner of Armand's mouth, leaving little red marks all the way down his jaw towards his ear. Her pearly white teeth grazed his earlobe. "Have you no rage about your situation? How does it feel to be betrayed by your lord and sold to your enemy?”

Alannys’s hands came up to knead his tight shoulders. "I could be good to you if you work for it." Her sharp teeth nipped at his neck where his pulse hammered the hardest. Her breath was hot against his neck, her soft hands tipped with clawlike nails that Armand liked more than he cared to admit when they dug into him. Her nails pricked at his scalp, tugging at his hair. 

"The fae keep their promises. Devote yourself to me and I will give you freedom.” 

A reaction at last. Not to her caressing hands, nor to the sharp nip of her teeth, but to her words. Armand stiffened. Not a flinch, but an abrupt increase in tension, seemingly across his entire body. His bound hands clenched into fists. His throat bobbed again, blood pounding hot.

The former knight's voice came out low and hoarse from disuse at first, but plainly furious. His defiance was a delightful novelty, almost tangible enough to taste... to smell; to _see_. It was the same shade of red as his hair. 

"Do as you wish to me. I will never pledge myself to another monster on a throne while I breathe."

Against his shoulder, Alannys smiled. So there was a spirit there after all. How she would delight in breaking it, piece by piece.

Ignoring the rage in the tension of his body, she pressed herself against Armand's chest, hands coming down to play with his cock again. The flesh felt a bit firmer than it had a few minutes before.

"My dear, I have played with many men in my lifetime. No matter who they were before they came to me, all of them had their breaking point. You will be no different." Alannys said softly. "If hardship is indeed what you desire, I can certainly accommodate that."

Armand’s chest rose and fell, blue eyes flat with anger as Alannys rounded him, making her way to the brazier that crackled in the corner, pushing the rippling waves of her hair back.

Being in the center of the room, Armand could observe her every move, from the sway of her hips as she walked to each time she hesitated over the array of pokers laid out in the brazier's coals. Of course, he didn't quite realize what she was deliberating over until she turned around, her misleadingly delicate fingers wrapped around the handle of what he immediately recognized as a branding iron, the same sort he had always been horrified to see used on livestock as a boy.

The end of the poker glowed with a dangerous heat as Alannys made her way back to Armand, her pace deliberate and slow. There were so many delectable places for her to place her mark. His body was a delightful blank canvas, and now, it belonged to her. Armand of Anglia was to be made an example of.

The urge to fight was instinctive. The chains that held him only made the situation worse, spurring his heartbeat to new heights as his struggling grew less tactical and more animal. Though some part of him knew there was no escaping this, he could not find it within himself to stop struggling, always thinking of how he could escape even as the heat grew unbearable, and then blistering.

Alannys’s night-sky eyes gleamed as she stopped perhaps a pace away, the brand motionless in her hand as she watched the human struggle to escape his chains.

"I want to hear you scream, hero." The red hot metal of the brand made contact with the tender flesh of the side of Armand’s neck with a sickening sizzle and immediately started to smoke up.

And, oh, how he screamed, with that first agonizing touch of the brand against his vulnerable flesh. His body stiffened into a rictus of agony, his nails digging so hard into his palms that they left bloody crescents behind; every tendon of his neck thrown into sharp relief as the muscles in his jaw tensed so hard they seemed liable to snap. Armand's voice gave out halfway through the scream, leaving only tortured silence behind.

There was only the agony and the sickening scent of burnt flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for branding and non-consensual touching. Poor Armand. He isn't having a great time.


	5. A Lesson in Gratitude Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armand pays the price for his disobedience.

When Armand opened his eyes again, he did not know where he was. He was disoriented, fever hot, and the ceiling seemed to swim before his eyes. After several moments of simply lying there breathing, he somehow found the strength to sit up and immediately regretted it.

He  _ burned _ . Everywhere. None, however, more than his neck. Making a choked sound of pain, Armand brought a hand up to the source of his pain, his aching neck, fingertips encountering the edges of a thick bandage that had been wrapped loosely several times around his neck. It all came flooding back with such intensity that he had to stifle a gasp.

Stonehaven. The faerie queen’s night-sky eyes. That awful room. The brand sizzling against his skin. 

Looking around the room, carefully so that he did not have to turn his head, Armand found it to be a barren little cell just big enough to fit a cot in the corner. Not the same room he’d been dragged to last night. His ankle was shackled to a length of chain which clinked as he moved, and was looped loosely about the end of the bed as if they expected him to make a run for it. 

That was one thing that his captors need not worry about. He was feverish, still, as if the heat of the branding had soaked into his entire body, sapping his strength from him in the process. He felt weak as a kitten, barely strong enough to sit up in bed, let alone fight anyone who came for him.

Armand felt the edges of the bandages about his neck again, running his fingertips across them.  _ Branded _ . 

It was some time later, perhaps late afternoon judging from the grey light streaming in through the narrow window when the door to his cell opened. It was the Queen herself who entered, wearing another warm woolen dress, this time in light grey that paired well with her snowy complexion. She was carrying a bowl of porridge and a cup of water. She set the bowl at the end of the cot as she seated herself at its edge, her weight causing it to dip a little further.

"Welcome back to the land of the living." Said Alannys, eyes flicking to the bandage at his neck. "You’ve been asleep for two days.” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “Such fragile things you humans are.”

“I have with me some breakfast and water. You must be hungry, no?" The cup pressed against his lips, water sloshing over the rim up against his fever hot flesh. And just as suddenly,it withdrew. 

Armand unconsciously followed the cup as it withdrew before the clink of his chains forcibly reminded him exactly where he was. He pulled away a little, blue eyes flicking up just in time to catch the amused smirk that played across the woman's lips.

"Before we get to feeding, I have a little request to make. You see, darling, charming as that stony silence of yours is, your manners are not very good. Before it touches your lips again, you will ask me for a drink."

His  _ manners _ ?

Armand's mouth firmed, his expression turning slightly frustrated as anger and embarrassment danced within his eyes.

“Well?”

This situation had rapidly boiled down to two choices. Beg. Or don't beg. Remaining silent wasn't an option anymore. If he did as she asked, he would be rewarded with the water; maybe even allowed to fill the aching knot of his belly, too.

Armand's hesitation was a beautiful thing. It hung in the air, between them, simultaneously at the tip of his tongue and the back of his throat. He felt as though he might gag on the request, but he managed to force a word out.

"Please."

Alannys smiled. How beautiful she was, even in a dismal place like this, her hair falling in snowy strands around her face as he leaned in to trail her fingers across his cheek. 

"I didn't hear you" She whispered.

Releasing his face, the Queen leaned back again, not dropping her gaze once as she idly began to trail her fingers across the surface of the water, freshly drawn from the well outside that very morning. 

The water felt upon his lips as it must to a dying man, tempting him to just crack his lips... Armand half didn't notice the slim fingers that came up to touch the side of his face with their faux tenderness, violence lurking just beneath the surface, lying in wait for the wrong word, the wrong movement.

“Tell me what you want, my pet. I want to hear you beg.”

The human's tired blue eyes moved from the rim of the water cup up to Alannys's face, resting, at first, upon her chin before they moved up to those night-sky eyes. The anger in the pit of his stomach had begun to curdle into something much more resembling hate. It moved within him as he met her gaze. 

He hated the names. They were as if he were a dog, or a treasured lover.  _ My darling. My pet. _ Always with the 'my', affirming her possession of him. He supposed she did not really need it anymore. The angry brand burnt permanently into his flesh would make it clear enough for most people. 

It was this anger alone that gave him the strength to refuse her.

“No.”

The brief glint of angry frustration that flashed in the Queen’s eyes did not go unnoticed by her captive before it was obscured by forced, regal calm. His sudden refusal baffled her. He had been so desperate for water and now he was refusing it? He was refusing  _ her _ . That could not go unpunished. 

"A shame." Alannys said coldly. Standing abruptly, she held the cup before his eyes, making him watch as she slowly tipped it, letting its contents form a puddle on the ground.

"I suppose you don't want this either, then." She picked up the still-warm bowl of pottage, and, stepping around the puddle, stirred it once with the spoon before tossing it all onto the floor.

The starved animal part of Armand wanted to yank against his chains, crawl and whine if it meant he could lick the water from the floor, but in reality, he just watched numbly as the final drops of water from the cup joined the puddle on the floor, something twisting emptily within him. He was a fool.

"It appears a lesson in gratitude is in order." Alannys said, her smile turning cruel. She gave his burned neck a firm pat like petting a dog, before she turned to the cell’s door.

The food was less of a loss, making his stomach roil as the bowl clattered against the wall, flinging its soupy contents everywhere. Likewise, the dizzying pain when she none-too-gently patted his branded neck made the nausea rise within him, but he managed to swallow it down, along with the agonized sound which had risen in his throat.

"Enter." Alannys called, in a ringing voice.

It was Ilyas who pushed the door open, a slow, cruel smile forming on his lips as he spotted his favorite human. "He looks comfortable. Not bloody enough." The man remarked. Without his armor he looked slimmer but just as formidable. A sword was buckled at one hip, a dagger on the other.

“Take him outside.” The Queen ordered, folding her hands in front of her as she took a last look at Armand. “Let him think about his mistakes out in the cold. Perhaps he’ll think twice about defying me next time." The sound of her heels followed her out as she stalked from the room.

Ilyas bowed his head in response and set about freeing Armand from his restraints, producing a length of rope which he tied far too tightly around the human’s wrists, tying them in front of him, and used to drag him out, still naked as the day he was born.

"Come along, cunt. Let's hope you don’t freeze your prick off out there. That would be a shame." Ilyas said cheerfully, dragging the human along behind him. It was almost laughable how weak he was in this state, stumbling along behind him, almost too weak to stand upright. Anglia’s hero, indeed.

Down a flight of stairs and out into the inner courtyard they went. It wasn't snowing, but it was utterly frigid, miserable conditions. Ilyas pulled Armand through the half frozen mud and to the sheep pen. If the human was smart he would nestle in around the animals to keep from freezing to death. Ilyas pulled the gate to the sheltered pen open and shoved Armand inside.

"You’ve found your kind again, hero. One big stupid animal back where he belongs." Ilyas said with a pointy grin as he secured the rope to a post, knotting it securely.

At least the animals had a thick coat of fur to keep them warm in the winter. Armand’s prickly, fever-hot skin had quickly given way to gooseflesh. The wind blew something fierce, but there was no snow. All the pity more, for the drifts had since melted and what little snow remained had coalesced into filthy ice which even Armand, as thirsty as he was, did not dare touch.

"Perhaps it will snow later on." Ilyas said, eyes scanning the yard. Apart from the occasional servant, no one would willingly be out in the cold. The frigid air brought color to the faerie’s high cheekbones, bringing blue tinged spots of colour to his face that seemed so unusual and out of place when compared to the pinkish tones of humans. He couldn't wait to get his hands on Armand. The crimson of human blood would always be a marvel to him. He was ceratin it would look absolutely brilliant against Armand's pale skin.

"Stay warm, hm?" Ilyas said with a wolflike grin and bundled his cloak more securely around himself before he took his leave. 

Armand watched Ilyas go, anger in his gaze. A shiver wracked his body a moment later, wracking his shoulders, and he turned towards the sheltered area beneath the pen's thatched roof. 

The majority of the animals were huddled under there, pressed together for warmth against the approaching cold front. They watched their strange visitor approach, but none of them seemed particularly worried by Armand’s less-than-intimidating presence.

His rope was not long enough to allow him to press into their midst Armand, though frustrated, was not surprised. 

The ground was scattered with a mixture of rushes and old hay, both of which had undoubtedly seen better days. Armand, filthy already from his trek through the mud on the way here, made his way over to one of the three walls of the small pen without much bother, though he continued to shake at regular intervals as the chills picked up.

Armand sank down to the ground, chilled and miserable. The wall did a less than adequate job of blocking the frigid wind blowing in from the north, but he would take what he could get. His body was shivering in earnest, now, so he brought his knees up to his chest in a poor attempt at conserving warmth as he allowed his head to rest against the wall, trying his best to breathe through his mouth. Just breathe. It was all he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be introducing our second main protagonist next chapter. Stay tuned, and, as always, leave comments or kudos! I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	6. A Lesson in Gratitude Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adair, sent outside to feed the animals, discovers something out of place in the sheep pen.

For the last day and a half, the kitchens had been abuzz with gossip about their Queen’s newest acquisition from Anglia. Most of the servants hadn't seen the man, but the several who had hadn’t stopped chattering even after the inevitable complaining about the topic growing boring started. 

“Big, he was! Shoulders like an ox, and that red hair- But by Lady Winter, he had a frightful look to those eyes.”

Since Queen Alannys’s ascending of the throne, red hair was not terribly common among the people of Albion.

"How long would we give him, hm?" A matronly woman asked with a rather uncharitable smile. She was the very same who had bathed Armand after his arrival. She had contributed by giving several of the more personal details about the human, sending many of the girls to giggling.

"My coin’s on two months.” A stable boy piped up. Some of the others nodded in agreement. "Red hair or no, the Queen’ll execute him soon enough after she tires of him."

Adair, sitting in the corner with a knife and a rather massive pile of potatoes, could not say that she had an opinion on the matter. She knew only that the man was said to have a fearsome reputation as a warrior, a fae killer and supposed knight of his country. Personally, he did not seem the sort she wanted to meet, though her opinion was undoubtedly unwanted anyways. 

Wiping the back of her hand across her brow to rid of the sweat, the girl took a surreptitious look towards the congregation of gossiping faeries. Regardless of the temperature outside, the kitchen was always sweltering due to the great fire that was kept stoked at all times so that the Queen might never have to wait for a meal.

Footsteps. Someone suddenly thrust a heavy sack into Adair's arms, making her drop both the knife and the potato she’d been peeling, which, respectively, clattered against the stone and rolled beneath her stool. 

Adair chanced a look up into the sour face of the woman who ran the kitchen. Niamh. She was big, considerably old, even for a faerie, and ran the kitchen with an iron fist. Though most of the other servants tolerated her, Niamh had a particular dislike for Adair which she took pleasure compensating for with extra work.

"See to it that the animals are fed, girl. Be quick about it!" Niamh snapped, before turning to rejoin the gossip.

Heart sinking, she took a look down at the heavy sack, then got to her feet, shuffling towards the back entrance of the kitchen. Her shawl and gloves hung on a peg by the door, which was already letting in drafts of cold air. Adair despised the cold. Before this, she had never left Albion, so to be so suddenly uprooted, voyaging across the vast ocean only to end up here was certainly not ideal. Unfortunately for that matter, she had no choice. Where Alannys went, so did Adair. 

Once properly protected against the frigid weather, the girl ducked outside with her grain, the door banging noisily against its frame behind her. It was starting to snow out there, and the few snowflakes that fell were thick and fat, catching in her auburn hair. When worn long it was curly and difficult to work with, a rich copper shot through with earthy brown undertones, but with the danger of getting it caught on something in the kitchens, she almost always wore it in a braid.

Squinting as she made her way through the slush of the courtyard over to the sheep pen, Adair was thoroughly startled by the lanky white shape crouched in the corner of the pen, jumping at the burst of fright that set her heart to beating far faster than it was meant to.

" _Oh_!" In her fright, she had clumsily dropped the sack into the mud. "Damn it!”

Carefully picking the sack up again, grimacing at the mud it smeared on her skirt, she carefully continued until she was right up against the wood of the pen. 

Bright peridot eyes peered at the pale figure hunched in the pen. One thing was for certain. It certainly wasn’t a sheep, or at least not the kind that Adair had ever seen before. Despite that it was freezing out, the man tethered there was naked as the day he was born. 

Red hair… Could he be-?

Adair edged around the corner of the pen and crept closer to the man. Was he dead? He looked to be pale by nature, but she was certain that being blue wasn’t a desired trait in humans.

Despite her misgivings, she pulled her shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it about the man’s instead. It was tattered and stained just like the rest of her clothing, certainly not big enough to act as the blanket he needed, but it was better than nothing. She frowned at the bandages wrapped around his neck, reaching out with trembling fingers to carefully fold down the top. It revealed a livid red mark, raised from the rest of his pale skin and most certainly intentional. 

_Oh_. 

"Ser?" Adair found herself asking. Her teeth were already chattering. If he didn't answer if he had since frozen to death, she would not be at all surprised.

***

Armand was dreaming.

Fire featured heavily in it. His hands were free, one holding a knife, the other a small half-carved hunk of wood, though not much carving had been getting done, for he kept nodding off. He had been sitting at a hearth, though, for the life of him, he could not distinguish _where_ it was. He felt very peaceful.

A small voice, as if from very far away. “ _..Ser?_ ”

Armand returned abruptly to the world. It was loud. Sounded like wind. But he still felt warm, a strange sort of warmness, for when he tried flexing his fingers, they would not respond. He could not even feel them. The thought struck him as rather humorous, strangely enough.

The peaceful feeling, for whatever reason, lingered. Armand found that he could not quite remember where he was, but instead of panic, he felt only a mild sense of confusion. His eyelids felt as if they had been carved from stone, and the effort it took to turn his head slightly felt as if he were drawing a sword from solid stone instead of trying to move his uncooperative body. 

He managed, somehow, and blinked owlishly at the young... girl? Woman? Standing outside of a rough-hewn fence.

She was rather strange looking, Armand thought to himself, though not in an unattractive way. Quite unusual green eyes, such a bright green that they almost seemed to glow. Perhaps, it was his imagination, for he felt very tired right now

... _Yes_. Men were known to hallucinate things when they were tired. It was a lovely hallucination, in any case.

Her pale face, which narrowed down to a slim, pointed chin, was framed by loose red curls, though rather darker than his own, and her ears, where they stuck out from her hair, tapered to delicate points. She looked... concerned? Why was she concerned?

"..oo're you?" Was that his voice?

***

The man was most certainly in a state of peril. Certainly he couldn’t be made to sit out here the rest of the day. He would die. She had not expected the Queen to rid of her newest toy so quickly, which meant this had to be a mistake- hadn’t it?

Adair crouched lower to take a look at his hands which were tied in front of him. When she touched his fingers they felt icy, certainly like no living thing was meant to be. Against her better judgement, she began to squeeze and rub them until some semblance of colour, pink instead of blue, started to tinge them again. Suddenly, a door banged open. A moment later, a boot collided with her side, kicking her backwards into the mud. 

Sprawled on her back, Adair looked up into the cold grey of Captain Ilyas. Her blood ran cold. 

Ilyas' boot pressed down on her chest, squishing her further into the muck. It began to saturate the back of her dress and touched her skin with a frosty dampness that made her shiver. She could only stare up at Ilyas, heart pounding so hard it seemed that it might burst.

"If it isn’t a scared little Autumn leaf, shaking out of her boots.” Ilyas drawled, increasing the pressure of his boot against her chest. A second later, his good temper evaporated, his foot pressing down hard enough to bruise.

 _“This_ is property of the Queen, girl.” Ilyas snapped. “Since his brand is still healing, I’ll forgive you just this once, but unless you want to join him- _naked_ , you’d best keep your filthy hands to yourself and go back inside." Ilyas snapped at the green eyed girl pinned under his foot, his eyes glittering coldly. There was a strange aura of familiarity to the threats. 

Adair could only nod in agreement, relieved to feel the foot come off her chest as Ilyas went to check on the human tethered amongst the sheep. Hearing him curse, she scrabbled to her feet, retrieving her scarf from the mud where Ilyas had tossed it. She was like a wraith, there as she finished dumping the feed into the animal’s troughs, then gone.

Truth be told, Ilyas hadn’t expected a warrior to succumb so quickly to the cold. Armand did not even struggle as Ilyas hefted him over his shoulder. He was hardly shivering even though he had just been out in the cold, his breathing shallow but his brow dangerously hot. It did not bode well for anyone if the Queen’s toy had been broken before she’d even had a chance to play with it. 

***

“Such fragile things, humans are.” Alannys remarked, ghosting her fingers distastefully along Armand’s boiling forehead. As instructed, Ilyas had laid the human down on a bed in an empty room opposite the Queen’s. She had been looking out the window at the lightly falling snow when Ilyas entered, but after taking a look at the human’s pathetic state, had discarded any thoughts of further play for the day.

“Indeed, my Queen.” Ilyas said gruffly.

The Queen touched his frigid hands, starting to become pink again, then inspected the bandage, pulling it down as Adair had to look at the brand. This was beyond her, but she did not want Armand to die. Not yet.

“Have we any healers in our midst, Captain?” Alannys addressed Ilyas, who was standing straight, also looking out the window as she had before his arrival. It took him a moment to tear his gaze from that of the falling snow, but he was quick to reply.

“Most are serving our army, but one remains, my Queen.” Cruel amusement touched his mouth. “Lord Autumn’s girl.”

“I see.” Alannys said coolly, stepping away from Armand and folding her hands in front of her so that she might also watch the snow for a moment, her beautiful features cold and serene as she watched the snowflakes flutter past the window, carried on the back of the cold North wind. “It seems the traitor might have some use after all. Fetch her. Inform her of her task and have her bring what supplies she might need.”

"At your command, my liege."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sixth chapter and still no comments? I'm hurt, guys, really. Jk... I hope everyone is enjoying!


	7. Ser Ilyas has His Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armand pays the price for striking one of his betters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexual violence, and graphic depictions of torture.

The watery morning light streaming through the window was grey and cold. Armand found, with a good deal of confusion on his part, that he was lying in a bed. It was a very comfortable bed, but this did not change the fact that he did not know where he was. This, and that his hands were free. In fact... as far as he could tell, he was not bound whatsoever. 

His body ached all over, but the pain of his branded neck was not nearly so bad as it had been, suspiciously so, for it wasn’t wasn’t even close to healing yet. 

He could not recall how he had come to be here, in this luxurious room with its grandiose ceiling and massive bed. His last memories were of the frigid cold and his numb extremities as he sat against the wall of the sheep pen, and green eyes, and then... _no_ , he could not remember.

Filled with unease, Armand sat up straighter up in the bed, gaze moving between the door and the hearth on the opposite side of the room. The bed was a rather extravagant four-poster affair, its pillars carved with intricate flowering designs, covered with more blankets than Armand had ever slept with, all of it fit for a lord, certainly not someone like Armand. They rubbed pleasantly against his bare skin as he shifted, sliding out from beneath them to set his feet on the floor.

However, no sooner had his feet touched the floor when the door swung open, a pair of bright green eyes briefly poking through the door to see if the human was still asleep. He was not. 

Adair heaved a sigh, hoping that she wouldn't have to make conversation. Though it was of no consolation to her, the man looked far better than he had the day before when he had all but been resting in death’s cool embrace.

"I- Breakfast." Adair said, faltering momentarily after those blue eyes found hers. Orders from the queen had been dispatched to the kitchen to see the captive fed and watered. Adair had been volunteered near immediately on account of that she had already been up here once last night.

It had been a grueling healing process, last night. Bringing someone back from the brink of death with as little training as Adair had made it doubly so. After the healing, she’d immediately tottered back to her straw bed in the kitchens and fallen into a dead sleep, too tired to even function.

Adair lifted the tray that as if to emphasize her purpose. There was a steaming bowl of oat porridge in a wooden bowl and a jug of water.

"I’m to make sure you eat it all-- Ser?" Adair said, peridot eyes briefly touching on the man’s naked form before focusing on the cracks in the floor. She knew that she had seen him naked just yesterday, but it was one thing to be half-frozen from the cold and quite another to have him fully conscious and blinking up at her with those wary blue eyes of his.

Setting the tray on the bedside table, she stepped back, her hands wringing the stained and threadbare fabric of her apron. “I will take the dishes once you’ve finished." Adair said quietly, fidgeting with her apron again as her eyes flicked nervously to his bare wrists and ankles, then the heavy iron cross around his neck. Why hasn't Alannys taken the charm from him yet?

A pair of serious blue eyes followed Adair all the way into the room. Armand, for his part, did not make a move towards her, neither of aggression or even to touch the breakfast she had brought to him, though the smell of it rising into the air made his stomach clench emptily inside of him.

After a thorough looking-over, Armand decided that she posed no threat, provided the food wasn't drugged and she wasn't hiding a knife somewhere in those rags, the latter of which he found unlikely. 

She was an odd one. Dressed in thin, threadbare clothing, she had dark auburn hair and bright green eyes, along with the delicately pointed ears of all fae. Unlike most fae he had encountered, however, she seemed to comport herself with a certain kind of timidity, albeit a graceful one, in the way she moved, like that of a wild deer. 

Her face had that same sharp beauty that all the fae possessed, but it was strangely toned down compared to that of Ilyas or Alannys, almost as if adversity had sanded her down over time. That, however, wasn't what kept drawing his eyes to her. There was a strange prickling in the back of his mind, a disparity not unlike he was trying to remember something but couldn't.

Armand briefly entertained the idea of rejecting the food again, but a low grumble easily identified as originating from his empty stomach quickly put an end to that train of thought. He certainly wouldn't get a better opportunity to eat anytime in the near future, and to eat alone (or, _almost_ alone, at least) was a rare indulgence indeed. 

Armand, one steadying hand still on the bed, rose slowly, unsteadily to his full height. He wobbled once, fingers spreading in the fur before he caught his balance once more. The bedside table was just out of reach, and his though his hands trembled alarmingly as he reached for the tray, he gritted his teeth and took hold of the water jug with a white-knuckled grip as he moved unsteadily back to the bed, all but collapsing onto it as soon as he was within range.

He knew he made a rude sound when the water- cool, crisp, soothing _water_ -touched his dry tongue, but he just couldn’t bring himself to _care_. The feeling of it sliding down his throat was better than a hot fire, better than a woman's touch, even better than sex. He drained the cup in record time and set it back down on the tray before reaching for the bowl of porridge.

Adair merely leaned against the closed door, silent and watching. She wasn't sure what to say to a man who supposedly killed without mercy according to the rumors flowing through the fortress. She had heard things ranging from a human knight on a blood-spattered charger who disemboweled faeries left and right, leaving their corpses to the carrion-birds; that he tortured and mutilated many with iron instruments that left their bodies unrecognizable. Perhaps that was why Alannys was being so cruel. Revenge, after all was one of the strongest motivators.

The man did eat like a starving animal. His ribs were moderately visible underneath a hard layer of rippling muscle, but the thinness had only made his jaw seem sharper. He inhaled the water and all but devoured the food, not seeming to feel the heat of it. When Adair inched up onto her toes to look, she found that the bowl had indeed been scraped clean.

Wordlessly she collected the now-empty tray and then ducked out of the room. When she shut the door behind her, however, Ilyas was standing in utter silence just outside of the door, a threatening presence that made her jump with a soft gasp. The jug toppled over and then fell onto the ground where the clay vessel shattered.

"Apologies, my Lord" she stammered, immediately dropping to her knees to hastily start picking up the shattered pieces. Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in her scalp as a hand threaded through her hair, forcing her head up sharply. Dread curled in her stomach at the sight of those cold grey eyes.

"I'd ask you to service me right here since you're already on your knees, but lucky for you, I have a different task to attend to." Ilyas said lightly, almost conversationally as he curled his fingers deeper into her hair, tightening his grip almost painfully. Adair grunted. The corner of his mouth tilted up in a cruel smile. "The next time I find you alone will be a different story."

Upon being abruptly released, after the door had slammed behind him, the servant girl did not hesitate to scramble to her feet and scurry away. She almost pitied the human. Almost.

***

Meanwhile Ilyas had entered the room, still wearing that slight cruel smile when he found Armand sitting stiff on the edge of the bed. Handsome as ever, he had forgone his usual armor and wore a plain tunic of a dark slate color that matched his eyes well. 

He did not waste any time allowing Armand room to resist him. Striding forward, he grabbed the man by the hair and slapped him across the face, delighted by the growl that left the redhead, the way he lunged forward as if trying to strike him. Releasing Armand, letting his own momentum from pulling away topple him backwards, he grab him by the hair again as he hauled him into the adjoining room. 

A snarl left his lips as soon as Ilyas's fingers rooted in his hair, a trend which Armand was quickly tiring of. His attempt at fighting the faerie off was little more than a little pitiful, given the state of his energy reserves, his strength sapped from him by malnourishment, and he was hauled bodily into the stone-floored adjoining room with little ceremony.

Armand fought Ilyas all the way with what little strength he had, making it difficult for the faerie in every way he could up until the shackles closed around his wrists, and even after that, he hung tense in his chains, bright-sparked anger in the blue of his eyes. 

“Good morning, cunt.” Ilyas said cheerfully.

Whilst Armand tested his chains, Ilyas went off to the dreaded cabinets on the other side of the wall. Battle rage made his pulse thrum, his vision narrowing in on the vulnerable column of Ilyas's throat, exposed by the plain tunic he wore today. If he were to rip out Ilyas’s throat, would faerie blood have the same iron taste as his own did? Would it stain his teeth blue? In the end, however, there was next to nothing he could do for it. The rage hummed within him in a way not dissimilar to unfulfilled arousal, dialing up as Ilyas turned around, this time with a club in hand.

Ilyas shut the cabinet and hefted the weight of the weapon in his hand for a few moments, eyes moving across the blank canvas of Armand’s pale skin. His gaze lingered, for a little while, on Armand’s groin. “So it didn't freeze off after all. How lucky for you.”

Armand stiffened, hands clenching into fists above his head as Ilyas came closer, and closer. His lips pulled back from his teeth, half grimace, half animal snarl. He was still entirely unprepared for the way Ilyas reared back, striking him in an upwards arc directly between his legs, smashing the underside of his cock and his unprotected balls. Armand let out a cry of pain as his vision momentarily whited out, the sound as clear as daylight.

Catching his breath to Ilyas's mocking laughter, though he was still dizzy, nauseated, and in pain, Armand gathered the anger and resentment boiling within him and spat it at Ilyas with vitriol. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to this beating. It was almost entirely unwarranted, unprovoked. Asking ‘why’, however, was pointless.

"Fuck you." Armand spat. Hate flashed in his blue eyes. The set of his teeth, bared in a feral snarl, was almost more animal than Ilyas himself. 

"Fuck me?" Ilyas repeated. He gave a sharp bark of laughter. The club swung again, this time connecting with his ribs. Once. Twice. Three times. Each hit was fast and hard, like swinging a sword.

Coming up behind Armand, Ilyas tucked the club under one arm so he could spread Armand’s cheeks, revealing the perfect pink rosebud of his anus. One thing that Ilyas had come to know during his periods of breaking men was that the anal penetration was as humiliating as things could get. Many men came undone the moment Ilyas fucked them bloody and he was sure Anglia’s so-called hero would be just the same.

"How about fuck _you_?" Ilyas said, an echo of a laugh in his voice. Flipping the club, he pressed the handle up against Armand's tight hole. There was no doubt about it. The man was most certainly a virgin back there. "Let's see how wide we can open up this cunt of yours."

Though at first, he was at a loss for exactly what Ilyas was after, Armand paled at the sensation of something rough and far too large pushing against his hole. He only tensed up more as whatever it was pushed against his resistance. This wasn’t right. He hadn’t been made for this. It broke past his resistance regardless, inanimate, merciless, and _burning_ as it violated him, Ilyas’s voice in his ears.

It _hurt_.

Fingers slid into Armand’s hair again, nails scratching his scalp as Ilyas tightened his grip, yanking his head back to force him to bare his throat. The faerie’s rasping voice sounded directly in his ear. "It seems I'll have to loosen you up a bit. Though it's a pleasure to know I'll have a virgin cunt to play with after all. Shall I keep pushing?"

Armand, staring up at that grey ceiling did something truly stupid indeed. The pain mixed with his shame, and when it met the simmering brew of his anger, it formed a dangerous and unstable reagent that bubbled over the keep walls of his carefully-held control. Ilyas's poison in his ear was the final push.

With no hesitation, Armand smashed the back of his skull into his tormentor’s face.

Ilyas didn't quite see the headbutt coming, and Armand's head smashed like a rock into his face, sending a dull wave of pain resounding out from the center, where Armand’s head had made its impact. Slightly stunned, Ilyas took a step backwards and put a hand to it for a moment. When he pulled it back, blueblood smeared his fingers, a drop spilling from the sharp end of his broken nose to spatter the collar of his fine tunic.

"It looks like someone still has a bit of fight left after all." The faerie growled. He had half a mind to gut Armand from groin to sternum just to watch the human’s intestines spill into a steaming heap at his feet. Maybe once Alannys finally tired of him she would allow Ilyas to act that desire out. “Don’t worry. We can remedy that easily enough.”

Taking hold of the club, Ilyas forced it violently inside another few inches. A choked sound of agony ripped its way out of Armand's throat, and another as Ilyas continued to ram the object mercilessly up his ill-equipped hole. He was dry; the handle was dry, and now that his tormentor had abandoned caution to the wind, the rough treatment had begun to tear tiny tears in the rim of his stretched hole. Ilyas drew a final wrenching cry from him as he pulled it back out with no more caution than he had used initially.

Ilyas stepped away, dusting his hands as he made towards the brazier. “You're going to pay for that temper of yours." he said in a chilling voice, spitting a bloody wad of saliva off to the side as he picked up one of the pokers. It had a narrow tapered tip, glowing cherry red from the heat of the fire.

Armand's pulse picked up as he picked up on which way Ilyas was headed. His last memories of that fire evoked the scent of burnt skin and agony, but, knowing he had no defense against what Ilyas was planning, Armand forced his limbs to still and watched with baleful eyes as the man approached, fear fluttering like a caged bird within his breast.

Ilyas took his time walking back to Armand, poker swinging idly back and forth by his side. Stopping a foot or so away, Ilyas tilted his head, those slate eyes taking in his captive’s vulnerable form the way a townswoman might choose which cut of meat she wanted for her table that evening. 

"Let's see how spirited you are after I break both of your legs." Said Ilyas with a wolfish grin. Raising it behind his shoulder in the manner one might swing a sword, he swung the poker in a downwards-sweeping arc. The superheated metal _cracked_ against the human’s shins.

Arand was wholly unprepared for the pain that _exploded_ across both of his shins a moment later, blackening the edges of his vision as he felt bone splinter and crack beneath the surface of his skin. He could not hold back his voice this time. He screamed.

Spurred on by the bloodlust that ignited by Armand’s agonized cry, Ilyas was merciless in his assault. It wouldn't be the last scream coming from the man either. The poker came down again and again until his disobedient captive's legs were undoubtedly broken, skin alternatively burnt and cut in places, a shard of bone protruding here, iron blood oozing there. The scent of it rose into the air, but despite its discordant scent, Ilyas was mesmerized by the rich red of it against Armand's pale skin. "Lovely after all." He proclaimed.

Tossing the poker back into the brazier, the slow drip of blood caused the embers to splutter and crackle. Ilyas surveyed the mangled mess of Armand's legs with satisfaction, as well as the small amount of blood on the floor that had evidently dripped down from that place between his legs. Ilyas was unconcerned. It was to be expected from a virgin, and with a little magical intervention, Armand would heal up nicely until the next time, if he had not already learned his lesson in disrespecting his betters.

"I look forward to our next meeting together, Ser Armand.” Ilyas said, though he knew the human, hanging limp in his chains, was undoubtedly too out of it to hear him. He took his leave without a backwards look.

The lion’s share of the magic wielders who had accompanied the fleet of ships to the new continent were still out on the front. Anglia had been conquered, but that didn’t mean there weren’t other countries to subjugate. The more land, the better. However, this meant that there were not many healers to choose from. In fact, the only available one remaining in Stonehaven was a wench, and a traitor to boot. 

Ilyas, having no other choice if he did not wish Alannys’s pet to expire, was forced to seek her out.

Adair spotted blood spatter, both red _and_ blue, on Ilyas's tunic when he approached, which made her swallow hard as she made eye contact. He stank of iron and misery.

"See to the human. Heal his legs and his ribs part way. I want him hurting, but he is not to die. Failure to follow instructions will result in punishment." Knowing him to be a man who always made good on his promises, Adair was quick to give a hasty nod.

Ten minutes later, she was standing in front of the door to that horrible little room. Phantom dread came back to haunt her as she entered, taking in the rows of neatly-arranged devices of torture, the shackles, and the row of pokers at the brazier. Worst of all was the man hanging by his wrists from one of the wooden beams. Adair thought she would pass out from the sight and sickening scent of his blood but she forced herself to press onward, coming close enough to touch so that she could put a finger beneath his nose to check that he was even still breathing.

Armand hung limp in his chains for what felt like forever after Ilyas left. Halfway between unconsciousness and vague awareness of his brutalized body, he hung there in a state of suspended suffering. Dreamlike, his mind turned over and over, analyzing the whistling crack of the red-hot poker against his broken flesh and shattered bone. Aside from the more pressing pain in his shins, it was made hard to breathe by the deep-seated ache in his chest. Broken ribs, his mind whispered. Less obvious still was the throbbing _between_ his legs. Armand, yet half conscious, dizzy, nauseated, and confused, bypassed that thought entirely, his mind blocking it behind the pain of his broken legs.

The human did not come back to himself even after the door creaked open again and a soft presence made itself known inches away from his face. He remained limp in his chains, his mind clearly somewhere far away from here. He looked a right mess. His hair hung dirty around his face which actually looked to be one of the more unscathed parts of his battered body. From the neck down, he was a different story. 

Bruises bloomed red, blue, and purple on the backdrop of his pale skin. The way he was hanging, arms pulled right above his head, it was abundantly clear that several ribs had been broken, blood pooling beneath the surface of his skin, more oozing up where the skin had broken. More bruising mottled his sides and abdomen. His chest rose and fell, breath sluggish and shallow.

The real damage, however, was the mess of his legs. Blood dripped steadily onto the floor, starting to form a small puddle beneath him. Splintered bone, bloodied white protruded from one leg. The other was twisted at an unnatural angle. Both bled from small lacerations, and many small burns littered the skin of both shins above the areas with the most trauma and bruising. 

Adair found herself feeling truly faint the longer she stood in the human’s presence. She stepped around a club left abandoned on the floor, finding, repulsively, that the closer she got, the more intolerable the scent of his blood became. It had an acrid metallic tang that burned her nostrils. Red pooled at her feet, sticking to the bottom of her shoes. But the man was alive. Somehow.

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the task at hand. Having been deprived of the training most magic-wielders received at a young age, using her rudimentary power to heal _this_ would sap the rest of her energy for the rest of the night and much of the next day, but she had no choice. It was this or face Ilyas’s wrath. Adair crouched down and swallowed hard as she took in the shard of bone jutting out from one leg. The other was twisted at a sickening angle. She knew that if either leg were to heal correctly, even with the aid of her magic, she would need to reset them.

Her hands trembled as they came to press lightly against the twisted limb, prodding near the knee several times to find the source of the break. Adair bit her lip hard as her skin came into contact with his blood. The liquid lightly stung her fingers, making them prickle in an altogether-unwelcome sensation, but she did her best to ignore it as she took hold of his leg with both hands, braced herself for what was to come, and rallying her strength, snapped the bone back into its rightful place.

 _CRACK_.

The worst part of the whole miserable process was undoubtedly the sounds that the man would make. Though mostly unconscious, prevented from fully succumbing to the dark by his continued torment, his face would twist each time, features painted over with agony as he cried out, jerking against his bonds. The whole thing made Adair want to retch, but she had to settle for taking deep breaths through the fabric of her sleeve, trying to block out the scent of his iron-blood. However, after his legs were set again, she was able to close his wounds.

Healing was a slow and time consuming process especially if one wasn't well trained. His legs required a lot of effort and healing them alone made her nearly sick, winded and lightheaded as if she'd run ten miles. She started by channeling her gift, coaxing it to flow from her chest down to her fingertips. A weak warmth spread through her body, a warmth not unlike being submerged in lukewarm bathwater, but she pushed that warmth to seep from her into the human. A faint light pulsed from her fingers and warmth continued to flow as bone mended itself and the lacerations closed.

She had to sit back on the floor for a bit before being able to get back on her feet and see to his ribs. The same warmth spilled forth, enveloping his torso like a blanket. As instructed she left the ribs half healed so that the bruising was more of a mottled yellowish brown color than dark purple and black. He was breathing easier, at any rate, not near so shallowly as he had been when she first entered. Adair was about to pull away for good, but her eyes caught on the bandage at his neck. Her hands moved without her permission, pulling it down to reveal a livid red burn. She stared at the brand on his neck for a long, tense moment, the cruel raven in its cage of thorns burnt into his skin. Nobody was there to see the way her hand came up to press hard against the center of her own chest before, hesitantly, she reached out to touch, light manifesting itself at the ends of her fingers. The cracked red skin there seemed to absorb it hungrily. When she pulled away, it was a little less cracked; not so livid. Perhaps even more pink than red. 

Without another word Adair gathered up her basket and got out of there as quickly as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for torture and sexual assault. I posted this really quickly before work so tell me if you see any glaring mistakes.


	8. Interlude: Routine Breaks Any Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weeks pass.

This was the pattern that formed over the next week. Armand would be fed his meal, then beaten within an inch of his life. Then, the healer girl would be summoned to heal the human from life threatening injuries, and then Armand would be subjected to the Queen’s mercies, spending his nights chained to her bed.

After about a week of this, however, it became abundantly clear that Armand was losing weight, and at a rather alarming rate. He had been a lean man to begin with, but as the stress of the situation began to take its toll, coupled with the inadequate amount he was fed every morning, his broad shoulders began to appear bonier, the bumps of his spine and the ridges of his hips more prominent. Even his cheeks appeared hollower, and when chained, every muscle was thrown into stark relief. That was when the meat began to appear in his morning meals. Armand, who had little appetite anymore, struggled to choke it down under the watchful supervision of whichever servant had been sent to feed him. However, he soon stabilized, and though, under these conditions, he would never gain back the muscle mass he had when he first arrived, he no longer appeared as a starving cadaver, which pleased the queen.

Some servants were worse than others, Armand was quick to learn, and some were not so bad as he had at first judged them to be. Following that first, awful day, he was always chained when they arrived with the morning meal. He was not allowed to feed himself, a fact which some servants were resentful of and others delighted in, taking after their wretched queen in that they loved nothing more than to watch him squirm. However, they all had the same reaction when Ilyas inevitably appeared, the same cowering and scraping routine. It appeared that Queen Alannys's Knight Captain had as little love among his people as among his enemies.

When Ilyas appeared, what Armand hated most was that he never knew what to expect from the bastard. No two sessions were ever the same. Armand highly suspected that it simply went off of the sadist's whims for the day. So far, he had been beaten with various torture instruments, flogged, tormented with hot pokers, kicked until he coughed blood, cut with long knives, and choked until he blacked out. Increasingly, Ilyas had taken to paying special attention to Armand's nether regions, always accompanied by creative threats of what he would do. And yet, aside from the first, cruel violation, Ilyas had yet to touch him in that way, which he found both disquieting and unusual, for if Ilyas was known for one thing, it was always following up on his threats. Armand had to wonder what was holding him back.

He was usually half-conscious, though there were occasions when he was completely useless, when the red headed faerie wench appeared to heal his wounds. On the occasions when he was conscious enough to hiss through his teeth at the strange feeling of her powers knitting skin and bone back together, they did not make conversation. She seldom met his eyes, but more often than not, she was kind enough to apply a poultice to the brand on his neck, which, strangely, enough, was feeling better than it should have for the time he’d had it. Armand was certain the queen had not ordered such a thing, for it was soothing, the closest thing to kindness he'd felt in far too long. Still delirious with pain, Armand had told her 'thank you', on one such occasion only to receive the startled flicker of green eyes.

Like him, she was another poor sop who appeared to have gained the ire of Ilyas. The faerie commander stayed through a healing session once, watching the two of them with his slate grey eyes as he made idle commentary on everything from her poor healing technique to how Armand's skin looked better in black and blue, even talking at length about a family, faerie nobility ostensibly, who had been executed for treason. Armand had been unable to ignore the tremble of her fingers against his bruised skin, nor the sudden and surprising empathy he felt.

However, of everything Armand endured throughout the day, he dreaded the nights spent in the queen's bed the most. Though he did not dare resist her as he did Ilyas, he had come to truly loathe her touch. She would take him in hand softly, at first, her soft fingers soothing his bruised and aching body as she toyed with him, bringing him to full hardness- an easy enough task, anymore, for though she was fond of making him ache, she hadn’t let him find release since the night he could not remember. The pleasure always made him feel a little sick at heart, a little more unworthy with every painful throb and pulse. After she brought him to full hardness, she would abruptly change tactics, digging her nails into his wounds, or pressing an elbow or a knee painfully into half-healed bone, and as he began to wilt, she would wrap her fingers around his cock again, bringing him back to the brink of release. As the night dragged on and he was brought to the peak only to be abandoned again and again, the sensations began to mix; pleasure and pain converging upon one another until they were as one. When Armand cried out, he was never sure which he was feeling, only that he was overwhelmed. Rinse. Repeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the read :)


	9. A Banquet at the Queen's Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armand is invited to sup with the Queen's court.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for extremely dubious consent? Public humiliation

It began as Alannys’s best ideas always did- within the four luxurious corners of her bed.

"I think I'll have you join me for dinner this evening. I think my darling pet has earned a proper meal, don’t you?" Alannys remarked. She was lying upon one side and running her nails across his skin, paying particular attention to toying with the nipple closest to her. Sweat was still cooling on both their bodies, and she had thoughtfully lined Armand's torso and thighs with thin raised welts from the switch she had beaten him with. His wrists, as usual, were chained above his head, the chain linked to the metal ring in the wall above the bed frame. 

The brand was on its way to healing, and though the skin was still painfully tender, the blisters had started to disappear and the colour had stabilized to a dull, cracking red throughout the entirety of the raised burn. Alannys took advantage of Armand’s exhaustion to run a single finger along it. The links jangled noisily against one another as the man startled, blue eyes snapping open and chains pulling taut as he flinched as far away from the light touch as the reach of his chains allowed.

Alannys laughed delightedly, a sound like the tinkling of silver bells, and moved closer still, her naked breasts brushing against his ribcage. Her hand cupped his jaw, turning his stubborn face towards hers. “You see, my pet, the whole court is ever so curious about the fate of Anglia’s hero.”

“I would be a poor Queen if I were to refuse them.”

Armand’s blue eyes burned in the dark long after Alannys turned on her side on the opposite edge of the bed, her breathing strangely mortal, soft and vulnerable.

***

Alannys did make good on her promise regarding the evening meal, for the next night she had Armand join her. Beforehand, he was washed and groomed again in the same manner as all the other times, by the same old maid, who gave him the same wink and pinch on the ass before she left him to the mercies of the guards. As it turned out, Alannys had a special present for her pet, just in case his role had not been fully cemented in his mind. When she entered the very hall she held court in, now lined with tables for the evening meal, it was with Armand by her side. He was made to crawl upon his hands and knees, and at his throat, there was the gleam of metal from the steel ring embedded in the leather of his newly-secured collar. 

Alannys seated herself at the high table with a rustle of rich fabrics, the rabbit-fur wrap she wore about her arms settling regally into place. "You're forbidden to eat with your hands" She told Armand, unable to contain her wintery smile at the sight of his anger and shame at the collar clasped around his throat. The Queen herself wore a daringly low-cut gown of pale blue silk, embroidered with silver thread and inlaid with a string of pearls about her waist, where the cut of the fabric gave way to the second layer of heavy periwinkle velvet. 

As the meal began, Armand was made to stay in the rushes on the floor beside the Queen’s seat at the table. Food in the form of mutton, roast pheasant, dark trenchers of bread, and stewed vegetables was being served. Wine and sweet honey ale were also available in copious amounts. A small dish was set on the ground before Armand, the same food only cut into smaller sized pieces by a servant. Alannys’s fingers brushed his jaw. “Thank me for my generosity, little hero.”

Collared and humbled, humiliation rose in hot waves to choke him, rising like bile in the back of his throat and burning his face. As the laughter crashed over his head, he dared not to look up, to meet their eyes, a symptom, he recognized, of his weakening resolve.

Even worse, despite his shame at being brought so low, after a week of being fed bland porridge, the food smelled good, the meat rich and fatty, the stew savory and seasoned with salt. As he stared down at the platter, his stomach gave a low, empty rumble, unable to comprehend his humiliation, only that he was hungry. The gentle brush of fingers against his newly-smooth cheek drew Armand's attention, and before he could think, his blue eyes had already snapped up to meet the night skies of his smiling tormentor.

The collar around his throat seemed to choke him, always rubbing painfully against the edge of the inflamed skin of the brand, which had been coated with a balm after he was washed. More humiliating than being led in on his hands and knees, even more than being laid bare to the smiling, laughing faeries seated at the table, for he had already been bare when he was led in, bereft of sword and shield and the comforting weight of his armor, bare when the brand scorched his flesh; bare when Alannys took her pleasure from his vacant form for the first time and Ilyas broke his body every time after-- the collar was a physical manifestation of all that he had lost, and all that he had become. 

Forcibly reminded of the first time Alannys had demanded he beg for his food, his shivering, miserable failure to comply, the lowering of his eyes was an unconscious thing. He could resist, and be beaten and humiliated in front of Alannys's court. But he was already aching from Ilyas's tender mercies the day before, aching as he always did, and the thought of causing a scene _here_ made some cowardly part of him flinch.

He did not look up.

"Thank you." Armand said, voice hardly more than a murmur, but clearly audible enough to Alannys that she should not ask him to repeat it again. Inside, a little part of his battered pride withered and died. His traitorous stomach growled again.

Alannys could practically see the humiliation manifest itself in the flush that reddened the back of his neck and ears, a near-perfect match to the coppery red of his hair, but she remained impassive, waiting for his response. And though a part of her had been looking forward to punishing him when he let his pride get the better of him, his submission was better, his soft voice like the sweet taste of hard-won honey melting on her tongue. 

There was something she loved about seeing him on his knees before her. It was the collar, she decided after a moment, and slid her fingers from his jaw to his throat to caress the smooth steel of its ring, to which the length of chain she held had been linked. It was a pity it would have to come off so soon, or it risked interfering with the healing of his brand. Alannys wanted her mark to heal perfectly over his lovely skin, a permanent mark of her domination over the Anglia and the soldier it had abandoned.

"You will eat all of it." Alannys told Armand, a warning to her otherwise pleasant voice. "If you are foolish enough to waste anything, rest assured that Ilyas will know."

She ignored him for the next part of the dinner, making idle conversation among the members of her court. Several were men on her council, wealthy landowners from their home country that had supported the war effort. Several more were either the wives of said council members or noble companions to the Queen of the Seelie Court. Every kingdom needed hostages, and what better hostages than the noble sons and daughters of their rivals?

Conversation mostly revolved around the war but after several lulls too many, tended to veer in the direction of the red-haired human collared at Alannys’s side. It was a topic especially spurred on by the ladies seated closest to the Queen.

"He hardly looks frightening..." Scoffed one golden haired woman, ornately adorned with many jewels and furs. "You are sure he was the one leading the fighting?"

The Queen smiled, stroking her pet’s red hair once again. "Oh yes, quite certain.” She said demurely. “File down his teeth and take away his claws, however, and he’s proven to be quite harmless."

"Is bedding a human any different than one of our own?" Another lady asked, prompting scandalized giggles among the women. So it was no secret, then, where Armand spent his nights.

Alannys took on a coy expression, her fingers slowly curling into the hair at the back of his head to force his face up. "They seem more fragile." Alannys said, contemptuously. "But this one has been such a pleasure to enjoy. The way he throws his head back and moans when I tease him is so very erotic. Men are all the same, regardless of race.”

Pause for effect. “They all think with their cocks."

The ladies tittered at that comment and shifted about in their chairs so that they could get a better look at the knight turned novelty.

Being talked about as if he were not there, or more likely, some sort of stupid beast unable to even comprehend Common, was hardly the worst of what Armand had endured, and though it grated on his frayed nerves, he managed to focus on his food. 

However, it was all too soon before Alannys's deceptively delicate fingers curled in his hair as if she sensed his retreat into the relative safety of his mind. They tightened abruptly, pulling uncomfortably at his roots. It hardly hurt at all, but Armand reluctantly followed the implicit order in her grasp and allowed Alannys to tilt his head back, obviously showing him off to her audience. 

"Dearest pet, the ladies are in need of entertainment. They wish for a more _hands on_ demonstration.” Alannys said silkily, though the light caught her perfect teeth. How very sharp her canines were. “I would have you pleasure yourself." Alannys said in that same silky voice.

Armand felt himself grow hot at her words. Pleasure himself? _Here_? He did not even know if he could even bring himself to become aroused under the gaze of said ladies, who were watching him intently now, hanging off of Alannys's every word, and yet his traitorous cock was already aching to be touched. 

He must have waited too long, for Alannys’s voice rose again in a sigh as she took a tiny bite of her dessert before reaching for a candle in the middle of the table. Its center was a pool of hot liquid wax. "I've been training the human whore to respond to pain with pleasure." Alannys told her guests "But perhaps he's reluctant to get his cock up when there's nothing to encourage him.”

Face impassive, Alannys tipped the candle slightly to the side. A drop of liquid wax tipped from the candle’s rim, dripping onto Armand’s bare lower back, sliding a few inches down the curve of his spine before it began to cool, turning opaque just above his tailbone as it dried. 

“You’re not being very grateful, pet." Alannys said coldly. Her eyes glittered like twin stars, coldly amused at the man’s attempts to retain any semblance of his pride. "Touch yourself or I will see to it that Ilyas will remove you from this place and beat you until you beg for forgiveness.”

The candle wavered, then tipped again. More than just a drop escaped this time, a steady stream of it pouring out, spattering against the man’s exposed balls. Armand’s entire body tensed up, a muscle in his jaw pulling taut enough almost to snap, the tendons of his neck standing out in sharp relief with the effort of muffling the shout that nearly escaped him. “How clumsy of me.” Alannys said as a few of the ladies burst into titters, her beautiful mouth curving in a cruel smile, however she straightened, her attention seemed to have been caught by something rather more exciting.

The instant the scalding wax had touched him, despite the pain, his traitorous cock had begun to stiffen. It was not so much as to indicate actual arousal, but more of a conditioned response. And judging from the gleam in Alannys’s eye, she had seen it immediately. It was shameful, even more shameful than the things his tormentors had forced him into, for this was a reaction, a weak one, but a reaction nonetheless. Nevermind that the arousal was purely physical- he had gone hard from the pain.

Slowly, Armand straightened as best he could, forcing his body to uncurl, to show his shame. He did not look up as he wrapped a calloused hand around his cock. It was an entirely different sensation than Alannys's smooth skin, but his pent-up body responded to his touch immediately, ignoring his growing horror with the situation. _He did not want this_. He did not want any of it.

A few members of the court watched Armand with hunger as he rubbed himself. He was handsome in a way opposite the beauty of the fae. Even though he had slimmed down, he had a rugged handsomeness to him that no faerie could ever possess. But unless the queen allowed them her permission, they could only watch, fantasizing about the enemy. Alannys saw their hunger for her pet, proud knight turned dog to the enemy, and she encouraged it.

Leaning back in her chair, she watched him through hooded eyelids and thought about renting Armand out like a whore to her subjects. However, she ultimately concluded that now was not the time. Armand was still rough around the edges, not yet well-trained enough for the finecky manners of her court. He still chafed at her commands, stubborn and unwilling, but with time, he would be pliable in every sense of the word- even begging to be used. She would break him yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Kudos? Constructive criticism? I take all


	10. A Different Kind of Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilyas receives leave to torment Armand in new and different ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-consensual oral sex and something that could probably considered self-harm, though the focus isn't really on that.

Routine was much the same over the next week. Alannys was cruel, Ilyas perhaps crueler. One particular day began as any other. Armand was fed his usual gruel that morning, delivered by the faerie girl with the bright green eyes. She said nothing to him and fidgeted about nervously, hovering until the bowl was empty. She disappeared shortly after that, leaving Armand to his fate for the day, or at least until her services were required again.

Ilyas came quickly after breakfast. The glint in his eyes told that he was more than happy to spend some quality time with the queen’s dog. This particular morning, Alannys had requested that Armand be humiliated in some way that would particularly trouble him. Ilyas, of course, was happy to comply. Enthusiastic, even.

"Good morning, cunt." Ilyas greeted pleasantly. Armand, as usual, was silent. A key unlocked the shackles and soon the human was dragged back into the adjoining room and trussed up spread eagle in the middle of the room so that Ilyas could torment him with his weapon of choice, starting out with his favored club as he normally did. The beating went on as normal, resulting in the red marks and heavy bruising that came from being hit repeatedly with that club.

Ilyas was far from finished though. Satisfied with the bruising mottling Armand’s skin, he went around the human’s back to retrieve a gag of sorts, a large metal ring with a strap on either side. The beating was routine by now, painful routine, but routine nonetheless. So when Ilyas stopped suddenly, Armand found himself slow on the uptake, his consciousness having begun its retreat back into the safe recesses of the back of his mind as if to spare him from the dull crack of the club’s impact. Grabbing his captive by the jaw, Ilyas forced Armand's mouth open and forced the ring inside to keep his mouth open. Before he could try to spit it out, Ilyas secured the straps tightly around the back of Armand's head, pinching strands of red hair in the buckle. 

The ring surprised him, clicking against his teeth, digging into the roof of his mouth when he instinctively bit down, but his struggles were in vain. It was as uncomfortable as anything, forcing his jaw open and digging into the sides of his mouth in a way that would no doubt become painful very soon. Believing that Ilyas intended to follow up on the threat to cut his tongue out, Armand struggled against his chains, the steel of the manacles rubbing red patches into his wrists as his heart rate spiked, preparing his body for a fight. However, when the faerie stepped away it was not to the cabinets, but to readjust the slack in his chains. Lowering Armand onto his knees, Ilyas resecured him again, this time with his head level with the other man’s groin.

"I notice that you don't talk much, cunt. Is that because you think you're better than everyone else?" Ilyas asked as he stepped in front of Armand. "A little peasant dog who thinks he's worth something? It’s cute. I’ll give you that."

Ilyas's intentions became immediately obvious when his hands dropped to his breeches, the other's groin now level with his face. Armand could do nothing but watch as the fae unlaced the front of his breeches and leisurely withdrew the length of his cock, hard already, despite the lack of preparation. The shaft was hard and pulsing with need, one that would be satisfied very soon.

"I'm thinking about starting every morning like this, should my queen allow it. Since you refuse to use that mouth of yours for talking, at least we’ll be getting some good use out of it now." Ilyas said. Grabbing Armand by a handful of coppery-red hair, he forced his head back and, taking dark pleasure in the man’s futile struggling, guided his cock into the deliciously wet cavern of his mouth. Letting out a groan as the thick head of his cock bumped against the back of the man’s throat, he began to push further down his throat until Armand's mouth was filled, his throat stuffed, and his face pressed flush against Ilyas's groin.

Unused to the sensation of something sliding along his tongue, bumping the back of his throat, Armand gagged near-immediately, hands twisting in his chains as Ilyas ruthlessly pressed onward, down, past his mouth into his throat. His struggling may very well have not existed for the iron grip with which Ilyas held the back of his head. Armand gagged again, throat spasming around Ilyas's cock as he spluttered and struggled to pull away, to fill his lungs with the air denied to him.

Relishing the convulsion of the man’s throat around his cock, Ilyas only became more aroused as Armand began to struggle. Armand was just another vessel for Ilyas to spend his bodily passions on. Something about the delicate nature of the knight’s face made Ilyas want to dominate his body in every way, shape, and form. Perhaps it was the way his long lashes fluttered as he choked or the sharp lines of his collar bone that only grew more pronounced as he gagged.

Ilyas was aching so much it almost hurt, but he wanted to make Armand suffer. He fisted his other hand in the man’s hair, holding him with both hands as slowly withdrew from his throat, allowing the kneeling man to cough and hack, tears in those blue eyes. Ropes of saliva coated his cock, a long strand linking his cock to the former knight’s cheek as he slapped it against the other’s face with a meaty _‘thwack’_.

"Don't worry about that pesky gag reflex, cunt. You’ll have had plenty of opportunity to get rid of it once I’m done with you." Ilyas said and then plunged his cock back into Armand's mouth once more.

He kept a firm grip on Armand's hair as he thrust in and out of that deliciously wet mouth, slowly at first but gradually building up speed. Armand could struggle all he wanted but there was nowhere else to go to. Ilyas encouraged the struggling in fact. He wanted to hear Armand's gagging, feel the way his throat convulsed around his cock. Ilyas could feel his release brewing, closer and closer with each delicious thrust. With a snarl, he really picked up the pace, fucking the human’s mouth near savagely as he drove himself closer and closer to his release. There was no man anymore.. Only a hole.

With a groan, Ilyas shoved himself inside as far as he could go, forcing the struggling man’s face up against his groin. A small shudder ran through the faerie as he released his seed, pumping it down Armand's throat so that he that had no choice but to swallow. Ilyas was slightly out of breath as he pulled out, cheeks flushed bluish with exertion.

"I forgot how good it feels to fuck a virgin mouth." Ilyas remarked, a wolf like smile on his lips as he began to tuck his spent prick back into his breeches. "You should expect this every morning from now on until you shape up and lose that gag reflex of yours.” His eyes gleamed flintily as he stepped back, taking a last look at the teary-eyed man on his knees. “Or until I batter it into submission, more likely.” He remarked. “Until next time, cocksucker.”

Armand would have spat at Ilyas’s feet had not the wretched gag forcing his mouth open prevented him from doing so. His anger was so sharp as to make him bleed, were he capable of touching it, and the room was so still, so silent that it almost seemed to taunt him. He would have taken almost anything in that aftermath- a beating, belittling words, or a chance to hurl himself at the object of his aggression to claw and fight like he so desperately wanted to.

He wanted to scream. To beat his fists upon the ground. _Anything_. Anything to focus on aside from the shame slowly starting to creep back into his soul, an irrevocable poison in the aftermath of his fury.

But there was nothing. He was utterly alone, left to the silence and the turn of his own thoughts.

An hour passed. Armand took to digging the manacles into his wrists, justifying at first that he was testing them, for as he had lost weight, indeed, the manacles had also grown looser on his wrists. They were not yet loose enough to twist his hands free, even if he were to break or dislocate his thumbs, and he was soon bleeding again, dribbles of blood that streaked his forearms down. He continued to bleed far longer than he should have, for the bite of pain inflicted by himself alone was a distraction from his mental anguish. It was something- one of the very few things -that he could control.

***

An hour or two passed before Armand was graced with someone else's company. When the door finally opened, tentative footsteps immediately betraying who it was, Armand looked up on instinct. He felt nearly sick with shame when he met a familiar pair of bright green eyes, but he dared not drop his gaze, blue eyes still flickering with the sparks from the embers of his dying fury. 

The healer girl who had entered was the first to look away from that intimidating blue gaze, scanning the room as if expecting a monster to emerge from the shadows. But there was only Armand, on his knees in the center of the room with a vile looking gag in his mouth, his torso covered in more purpling bruises. 

She twisted her hands in her apron as she approached. Forced to crouch down to remove the wretched gag, she unbuckled it from his snarled red hair, her brows furrowing in concentration. Armand, relieved to be freed from the gag, opened and closed his mouth, working his sore jaw, but the reminder of the instrument of his humiliation brought the blood rushing to his face faster than he could control the reaction. Though they were only inches apart, her lips on level with his forehead, Armand could not meet her eyes this time, and his fingers flexed, eliciting a fresh trickle of blood from the clotted-over mess of his wrists.

The experience of having his wounds knit back together by fae magic was always a strange one, even slightly uncomfortable despite all the times she had put him back together again. It was like pins and needles, always suffused by a strange warmth that seemed to come from the healer herself. Broken bones were always the worst, entailing long, messy work that left the healer exhausted, hands trembling halfway through. However, since the first time he'd taken a hot poker to his legs, Ilyas had not broken anything quite so messily

More lucid than most of the other times she had come to tend to him, although he still burned from the inside with anger and shame at the foul taste lingering in his mouth, he watched her work, observing the top of her head, as she put her hands to his ribs. His stomach churned.

She saw first to the bruising and bruised ribs, pressing her hands against the damaged areas to let the warmth of her magic flow freely. Her eyes were downcast as she worked, her lashes a dark brown a few shades darker than her cinnamon colored curls. They brushed against her cheeks as she frowned down at her work.

Something about his state today was different. Those blue eyes were more aware, angry, even, his wrists flexing in his chains in a way that made her slightly nervous for her own wellbeing. He was angry, that much was clear, and yet he remained stubbornly silent. It was uncomfortable enough on a regular basis, but with their proximity to one another and the way he continued to watch her, it seemed almost worse.

"My name." A bruise located above his right kidney slowly faded away into the backdrop of his pale skin. “It’s Adair. If you ever wanted to know. Or care.”

Her voice took him by surprise for the second time, and his jaw firmed as he watched her, distrust pulling at the corners of his eyes. She seemed... kind. But that in itself could very well be a cause for wariness. After all, she was a faerie, the same breed as Alannys and Ilyas. Same unusual eyes and pointed ears. 

_Adair_.

"Thank you, Adair." His voice came out rough, hoarse as if he'd spent the day barking commands-- though in reality, the truth could not be farther. 

It had been a long time since anyone thanked Adair for her work of any sort. Perhaps it had been years since she had heard any sign of gratitude. And to hear it from this human, out of everyone else...

Armand watched color tint the delicate tips of her ears. Her hands were beginning to shake. The gift of healing certainly had its ups and downs. For obvious reasons it was a valuable skill, far greater than any physician. The downside was how taxing it was on the body.

"I'm... not a very good healer" The girl- Adair -admitted, clearly focused on another bruise that spanned several inches across his rib cage. She could feel the bones cracking as they began to mend. Talking was a good way to distract her from the task and the human as well. The hoarseness of his voice and the kind of gag she found him in made her think that something unspeakable must have happened.

Armand grimaced and stifled a pained grunt as his bruised ribs began to mend. It was by no means a comfortable process, and so he found himself strangely grateful for the continued conversation, halting and awkward as it was. Burying his dark thoughts was no easy task, and though they still rose to the surface, it was made an easier task by the distracting deep-seated itch of his bones healing.

“Blood makes me sick. I faint.” She said, sounding more self-deprecating than anything. “And I was never given the proper training as a healer.” Silence fell as she concentrated on his bloodied wrists.

Armand remembered such healers from the battlefield, always accompanied by a guard as they moved from body to body. It was always particularly demoralizing to see the fallen get right back up, miraculously recovered from a fatal wound while a man took agonizing days to die from a gut wound unless given the mercy of a quick death from one of his comrades.

"It is a marvelous gift." He said softly. His voice was soft, but his blue eyes were very far away, his mind's eye on some distant battlefield, on the worn faces of his men the last time he had seen them. "I am only sorry that you must waste it on one so hopeless as myself."

Adair didn't quite know how to answer that. She thought of her exhaustion; having to deal with Ilyas every day; healing, then coming back to the same wounds the next day. The girl sat back with a sigh and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

Her eyes were on the ground, staring at the dark stone of the floor. Several curls had escaped the braid hanging down her back, framing her face in dark wisps. 

"It is not a waste.” She said quietly. “I understand your situation better than most.” When she glanced back up at his face, his gaze was distant. Perhaps he was ignoring her. Perhaps he didn't want to hear her talking. They _were_ technically enemies after all. Perhaps... if he had his sword, he would hack her down just as the rumors about him.

There was silence for a long, halting moment. Then, she spoke again. "Let them win." She said softly. "All of this will draw to an end. She may execute you, but you might have work instead- perhaps even peace, in time. Whatever it is, it would be preferable to _this_."

She was like him. _Like him_. The words seemed to echo, and for a moment, he felt an odd sense of something that had been- that may have been as he remembered a cold wind biting his skin and a pair of luminous green eyes.

'.. _.let them win_.'

The awareness abruptly returned to Armand's eyes. He stared at her for a long moment, gaze inscrutable, almost scarily so despite his sorry appearance. One moment. Two. Then, the human rolled his shoulders back. They undoubtedly had to be aching something terrible by now. He huffed a bitter-sounding laugh. It was less a laugh and more of a chuckle, though at whose expense remained uncertain.

"Yes," Armand said in that hoarse voice of his, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, "that would be the sensible thing to do."

If only it were so simple to let go of his pride. It _was_ simple. A simple choice. A simple-enough vow. But how long could he live with himself afterwards before he walked into the sea or took a knife to his wrists? He would never again be a free man. At an executioner's blade or left to his own devices, his life would not be long. 

In this life, peace did not appear to be in his cards.

Adair was the first to break the stare. Though the human’s eyes weren’t near so vivid as her own, they did seem to glow with something for a moment. Whatever that something was, it made her uncomfortable. It reminded her of herself, or rather, the person she had been what felt like forever ago. But once Alannys stripped you of everything you held dear, you were nothing. And you would always be just that. Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My creative spark lives and dies by comments, so if you liked it, please let me know.


	11. Mark of the Cross Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alannys learns that her pet isn't as broken as she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-consensual sex and graphic violence.

Several more days passed, following the same routine. Breakfast first. Then, Ilyas would beat Armand to whatever state fit his mood that morning. Sometimes he would whip and beat the knight into unconsciousness. Other times, he would take his pleasure from Armand’s body. At night Alannys would show her pet off at dinner, but sometimes she would take her meal in private before taking her fill of tormenting the man.

One such evening, Alannys had Armand collared and chained as she laid with him in the bed. "For a man you really have an astounding amount of self control." She told her captive as she played with his hand, rubbing herself, catlike, against him. Her silky breasts, tipped with perky nipples, rubbed against his arm.

"Shall I ride you tonight? Or would you perhaps mount me for a change? If you please me, I might even give you some clothing."

Armand, wearied by the morning's beating and the hours left kneeling alone on the hard stone of Alannys's quarters, blinked up at the ceiling, doing his best to distance himself from the low arousal thrumming through his veins. He was still unsettled by last night's dinner. Alannys, as she was wont to do when she became bored of conversation, had taken to toying with him, but when she had taken his food, instead of fighting her, he had given in to her demands.

There had been something of Adair in his mind when he gave in, the scars on her wrists and the way she would refuse to meet his eyes sometimes. It _had_ proved easier, after he had managed to swallow his pride, but ever since, there had been a perverse sense of shame that stuck with him, sitting heavy in his chest like the heavy weight of a stone. Ilyas's morning visit, of course, had not done anything to soothe those worries. The man was cruel enough on a passing basis, but having gained the ability to put Armand on his knees had elevated his power complex to new heights, leaving Armand more drained and sick at heart than usual after those sessions.

His only relief were the brief snippets of conversation Adair would sometimes exchange with him afterwards. They were not often, but her touch was kind enough, and that was all he could ask. Armand understood more than most the swollen eye she came to him with one day, and though it made him sick to know that there was nothing he could do, not for himself, least of all for someone else, it only made his anger burn hotter.

Armand felt a tired sense of amusement at her words, and did not make to touch her aside from her manipulation of his fingers. He did not want her touch, and to respond would only invite her using it against him. Truly, Alannys epitomized the fae's grandiose view of themselves. Had she _ever_ lain with someone who actually wanted her affections? Did she understand what consent was?

He knew that clothing was superficial. It was just one more thing she could take away from him, one more thing she could use as leverage at the end of the day. Nakedness had become a state of being, but the promise of something to cover that nakedness was more enticing than he had first expected. 

"You will take what you want regardless of what I say." Armand said. Stalling.

True. Alannys could do that. She could do whatever she pleased. But tonight, she wanted him _willing._ She wanted him to cave in to his most basic desires- to turn these evenings into something more than just him lying on his back and waiting for her to finish.

"I know you lust for me" Alannys said, wrapping her fingers around his cock to rub it up and down in slow strokes. 

"I could give you many rewards if you please me. It doesn't have to be clothing if you prefer to show off that lovely body to everyone." Her thumb began to massage the head of his cock slowly to tease the sensitive flesh there, going round and round in slow idle circles. "This stubbornness doesn't benefit anyone, least of all yourself, pet. You're already my little whore so why not lose yourself to the role?"

Alannys leaned in to kiss Armand on the lips, a little frustrated that he refused to part the seam of his lips, even after she none-too-kindly nipped the full swell of his lower lip, trying to get him to gasp. 

She pulled away to drag her lips down his neck. Her tongue flicked out against the mostly healed brand on Armand's neck. He could not feel her tongue touch him there where she had scorched her brand into his flesh, sensation well and truly burned from the area, only the light pressure that had to be her lips pressing against his skin. He grimaced nonetheless, lips pulling tight across his teeth at the sensation of her fingers slowly circling his cock.

It felt good, much to his dismay, light, teasing touches to the sensitive head, stroking down the length. Though he refused to open his mouth to her kiss, he watched her as she worked her way down his body, straining not to react to the image, nor the tempting, teasing touches, laid light and kind to his bruised skin.

"Could be that Ilyas has you smitten?” Alannys mused. It was pure speculation, but the way Armand’s eyes went flinty led her to poke at what was obviously a sore spot. _I have you, little knight_. “Would you rather lay with him at nights instead of me?"

Stony silence. Alannys’s lips curled up into a slow smirk. She leaned in to blow a puff of air against his navel, watching a muscle jump in his abdomen as she touched him there.

"Because I am kind, I will give you a choice. Please me, or stay with Ilyas for the night." Alannys slid down lower and lower until her hot lips finally pressed against the silky flesh of Armand's cock. She kissed and licked her way up and down the shaft in the same slow and controlled manner of before, but her cobalt eyes remained focused on Armand's all the better to see his reaction.

She laid a kiss to the head of his cock, breasts dragging against his thigh. "Do you prefer to suck or be sucked?" She asked, voice laced with a sharp taunt.

Armand’s were transparent in the turbulent blue of his eyes, shame, conflicted frustration, and finally anger.

"Fine." Armand finally bit out in a barely-restrained growl. Half propped up as he was, he still struggled to rise more from his prone position on the bed due to the short length of chain stretched between his collar and the wall. The chain jangled loudly as he managed to settle into a sitting position.

"How do you expect me to fuck you if I cannot move?" Armand demanded coldly. He did not touch the chain, keeping his hands tightly fisted in his lap instead. Every line of his body was tense with barely-restrained anger.

Alannys straightened up and ran her fingers through her silken hair, pushing all of the silvery white strands over one shoulder. Armand certainly looked angry judging from the way his jaw was set and how his eyes blazed. 

“You will fix your tone, pet. Remember the one in charge here." She ordered, though she did detach the chain from the wall. Twining it in her hands, she considered her sullen pet, looking over his handsome jaw- taut from clenching it -and the hands he’d fisted in his lap. He’d had plenty of chances to kill her with his bare hands already, yet for whatever reason, he had taken none of them. He was pretty enough in pain, but Alannys was quickly growing bored with the current dynamic. 

Walking her hands up the length of the chain, Alannys paused, then viciously yanked it downwards, relishing in the surprised breath her pet took as his head was yanked down to her level. Holding him there with a strength utterly unbefitting such a delicate frame as her own, she reached up with her right hand to smooth the rich auburn hair from his brow. 

He really was a marvelously handsome man. Too bad humans burned out so quickly. 

"You are to seduce me tonight, pet." Alannys told him. She kissed him once, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the tight seam that remained of his lips before she released his chain, letting it clink against his collar, swaying over his shoulder like some sort of braid. It drew her eyes to the iron chain he still wore about his neck. The ugly iron cross that hung from it bumped gently against his sternum every time he breathed.

"But first- take off that useless talisman of yours." 

Armand clenched his jaw, teeth aching for a moment with the pressure before he forced himself to release it. Slowly, reluctantly, his hands went to the fine chain about his neck, arms rising above his head as his fingers found the clasp at the back of his neck. 

Alannys watched the whole process, those cobalt eyes of hers lingering on the iron charm at the chain's center. Just as he was about to lift it over his head, his arms heavier than lead, his heart somewhere in his stomach, Armand found himself remembering a children's rhyme, the sort he hadn't thought about for years and years. Like a ghost, it came back in singsong bits and pieces to dance through his mind.

_Blackthorn, hawthorn, rowan tree,_

_Build a pit that's three by three._

_When the moon is full and bright,_

_Thou dost well to fear the night._

_Amulets of iron cold,_

_Will do thee well far more than gold._

_Blackthorn, hawthorn, rowan tree,_

_Keep thy children close to thee._

_'Lest morning dawn and beds beside,_

_A changling doth thy face deride._

Fingers tightening around the simple iron cross, Armand wondered how much of such a rhyme could be true. Could iron really hurt the fae? And if so, how much damage could it do?

He was taking too long, and Alannys was growing impatient. If it weren't for the fact that the chain seemed to be made of iron as well, she would have ripped it from his neck herself. She watched his arms reach up behind his neck to unfasten it but then his movement stilled. Her head cocked slightly to the side as if to study her pet’s face. What was he thinking about?

"Take it off.” Alannys repeated sharply, and when that elicited no reaction, cuffed him sharply across the side of his head. Perhaps the man was growing stupid the longer he was held captive. Once the charm came off for good, she would see to it that it was disposed of and the last little bit of his past that could be physically taken away would be.

"You're trying my patience tonight, pet. I really wish you wouldn't do such things" Alannys said crossly. The beatings weren't enough it seemed. There was some sort of fortitude deep inside Armand that had to be broken in some way. Somehow she had to show him that his petty little acts of resistance were indeed futile.

Armand hesitated a moment more before he finally slipped the damn thing over his head, coiled the chain in the palm of his hand, and leaned forward over the edge of the bed to let it slip from his fingers, where the iron cross clinked against the floor, the fine chain making a pleasing, musical sound as it met the stone. 

Armand was hers now. Alannys did not bother to hide her smile. Barely concealed rage shone in his blue eyes, something she wanted to keep stoking. It was like she was playing with a wild beast and poking it with a sharpened stick to purposely get it to lash out at her.

Some said the gate to the soul was through the eyes. Indeed, within Armand's eyes, there seemed to burn a deep-seated fire. Hot and blue it was, and though his face was as stone, the depths of his eyes betrayed his emotions. There was so much anger there, barely-leashed aggression and unconcealed hatred, but alongside a kind of resignation that had not been there a week ago.

Slowly, deliberately, Armand, on hands and knees, approached Alannys. She was sitting upright, spine straight. She was as regal as a cat, as cold and beautiful as freshly fallen snow, and yet nothing like any of those things.

He was surprisingly limber for having been chained much of the last month, moving with a gait that bordered on predatory. Indeed, held against Alannys's comparably delicate frame, he could have been some sort of beast with those wild blue eyes of his. The blankets layered on the bed rustled as his legs dragged against them. Armand came to a halt inches away from her, and for a moment, there was silence as they watched one another.

His mouth was bruising when it descended on hers, hot and smothering as if he were seeking to extinguish her with that one kiss. Teeth clacked against one another; Armand growled lowly into her mouth and bit the plush swell of her lower lip hard enough to make her gasp at the small shock of pain. 

Nothing about his body language said 'lover'. His hands descended on her hips, grabbing and pressing finger-shaped bruises into her pale flanks as, in a display of strength, he lifted her up, uncaring whether she wrapped her legs around his waist or not as he turned about and deposited her flushed and breathless form face-down amidst the pillows.

Alannys gasped. She could smell the musky scent of him on the blankets. Her toes curled with delight at the sensation and soon he was fingering her with two, just as rough as she had been with him.

Using a knee to knock her thighs apart, Armand's fingers were without care as they spread her folds and immediately introduced a digit to her heat. It was soon two, fucking her rough and hard and overwhelming as his other hand found a place at the back of her neck and took a brutal fistful of snowy hair, forcing her back to arch as he pulled her head back.

A noise of pleasure rumbled through the Queen's chest, certainly not a human sound, as Armand grabbed forced her head back. Her back arched, and her arousal was starting to ache, welling liquid and slick inside of her. She could feel herself getting wetter in her lust for her captive, could hear it as Armand's fingers slicked in and out of her wetly.

But it still wasn’t enough. She arched back against him, grinding down against his fingers. “So our little knight isn’t useless in bed after all. I’m surprised, pet, really.”

Armand growled low in his throat and hooked the fingers within her, adding an unnecessary third far too quickly. The stretch of it undoubtedly burned, but it was all too soon before Armand was withdrawing his fingers, spitting into the calloused palm of his hand and giving his cock only the most perfunctory of strokes, once up and down.

He would have fucked her dry had it given him any pleasure, but she was wet already, slick and ready for him. Though he could have said many unkind words, Armand remained silent. There was no gentility in him when he grabbed her by the hips and forced her up onto her hands and knees. Likewise, he was as brusque as he had been in everything else when he guided the head of his cock to the slick folds of her cunt, his iron grip on her hair remaining harsh the entire process. But once there, he held the position, not allowing her to rock back, nor to move forward, but simply to feel the length of him slide tantalizingly between her folds, bumping the nub of her clit and nudging the entrance of her womanhood.

"You wanted me to mount you, did you not?" Armand said. It was a rhetorical question, clearly, if not implied by his tone then elucidated by what he did next.

He fully impaled her in two unmerciful strokes, withdrawing only enough to coat his length with her slick before he thrust in again, this time, his hips pressing flush against the lush curve of her ass as, for a minute, he simply ground against her inner depths. His other hand settled on her hip, grip unkind, harsh enough to make the bones of his hand show a stark white beneath the thin skin of his knuckles.

There was no question about who was setting the rhythm, but it appeared less for Armand's own pleasure than the raw slap of flesh against flesh. There was no love lost between the pair- only animal lust and sharp, angry strokes. 

Armand's hips pistoned in and out, unmerciful and seemingly untiring. Indeed, there was enough brutal force behind those thrusts as to make the queen's entire body rock, breasts bouncing as she was shoved back and forth. Meanwhile, he had since shifted his grip on her hair to the nape of her neck, forcing her to rest her weight on her elbows, face-down amidst the pillows as he fucked her like an animal.

Alannys' moans gradually devolved into harsh pants the longer and harder Armand ploughed into her. The faerie’s lithe body twisted again as her release built up, back arching as the length of her spine stiffened. Armand growled wordlessly in response as he felt her insides contract around him, squeezing his aching cock. Alannys moaned loud and unabashed as the dam inside her finally broke, sending wave after wave of rocking pleasure that had her shuddering beneath the human, who continued to fuck her through her orgasm.

Lying there in a delighted sort of stupor as Armand continued to plough into her, Alannys could only bask in the savage delivery of the most satisfying fuck she’d had since his arrival. Too bad he was a human- a human who had defied her. Now, he was her slave, no longer a proud knight, not even a person, really. There were dogs with higher status than her little knight. She would break him, and then she would do with him as she pleased.

Suddenly, and more than rather abruptly, Armand pulled out. He neither wrapped a hand around his cock nor made to bring himself to completion in a similar way, but he maintained his tight grip on the back of the queen's neck, preventing her from looking up. The bed shifted. Out of Alannys's range of vision, something metallic scraped lightly against the stones.

A moment later, a finely-linked iron chain wrapped around Alannys's throat as a hand closed around her mouth and a knee pressed into the small of her back, pinning her.

It was a good thing that he had put a hand over her mouth, for the shriek the faerie made when the iron touched her skin was curdling even behind his fingers. Indeed, even the smallest amount of contact seemed to sizzle against her pale skin, but Armand held on grimly to the chain, keeping it suffocatingly tight. Let her feel what he had felt when she had burned her brand into his flesh.

Pleasure-drunk as she was, she had not seen it coming. Armand's heart was pounding, adrenaline in his veins, and yet a perverse sense of satisfaction crept in at the edges of his grim determination even as she choked and spluttered, testing his waned strength with a rather shocking display of her own physical strength. That strength was more than enough to match him in this condition, and he knew that if he had attempted this at any other time, she would easily have overpowered him. 

It all had happened so quickly it took Alannys another second or two to realize this attack was coming from Armand. She screamed again behind his hand, the pain so intense she nearly passed out. But she couldn't. If she didn't act the iron would eat away at her throat and Armand would kill her. He already had it pulled so tight it was hard to breathe.

Savagely, she sank her teeth into the man’s hand until she tasted the vile coppery tang of his blood. It burnt her tongue much like the chain wrapped around her neck did her throat, but she didn't care, continuing to shriek beneath his palm. 

Her body twisted and thrashed beneath him, trying desperately to dislodge his knee from her back. Blackness clouded her vision, and the pain grew even more excruciating as they struggled on the bed, but the iron made her weak and the human, even in his weakened state, was still a heavy force she couldn't dislodge while in the throes of agony.

With a muffled scream, Alannys thrashed, raking clawlike nails down the back of the human’s hand until she found purchase around his wrist. Another thrash, even more powerful, and the chain went flying, one of the links in the middle having finally succumbed to the force of Alannys’s rage. Armand could not hope to hold her now. 

She would have his fucking head for this.

" _Guards_ !" Alannys screeched, her voice transformed into a bloodcurdling screech. "Assassin! _Help me_!" 

Never in her life had she felt so helpless, so pitiful, and so full of rage. She gave out another strangled shriek as Armand’s hands wrapped around her neck. His blue eyes bored down into hers as she gasped and choked, clawing and writhing beneath him. The chain was gone, having slid off of the bed, but the surrounding skin felt like it had been doused with acid. 

Through slitted eyes, she watched as the door burst open and two knights raced into the room. One guard lunged at Armand and half crawled onto the bed, grappling with the man to try and knock him off the weakening body of the queen. The other followed suit, leaving Alannys teary-eyed and gasping as they pulled him off of the bed.

Though at first, Armand fought with every scrap of energy he had left, it was not enough against two heavily armed and armored fae. For a moment, the two of them grappled on the bed, but this one was wearing his helmet and there were precious few weak spots in that armor accessible to bare hands. He was hauled off of the bed, arms restrained behind his back and face pressed against the floor as the other pinned him.

"Get Ilyas!" the guard holding the human down snarled at his companion. He dug his knee into the middle of Armand's back to hold him still, though his menacing movements hinted at his desire to run the man through with his sword instead.

He could not put up much more resistance, after that. The initial burst of adrenaline was gone, and his heart had sank low in his chest after he caught a glimpse of Alannys. She was white-faced, gasping for breath, and shaken, her hands fluttering at her neck like pale moths. The iron had burned livid markings into her neck, but aside from the chain links, most prominent was the cross burnt into her flesh in much the same location of Armand's raven brand. But she was still alive.

He'd failed.

Well and truly trapped, Armand pressed his forehead against the cool stone, closing his eyes. The human's shoulders shook, and though, for a moment it almost appeared as if he were crying, it soon became clear that, quite the opposite, he was laughing. The laughter was silent and soon subsided, leaving the human still and frail upon the floor. Looking at him, it seemed a miracle this man was capable of the damage he'd done.

Armand turned his cheek to the cool stone, listening to the angry sound of approaching footsteps. He was cold, now, emptied of the resolve that had flooded him. But for just one moment, he'd felt alive again.


	12. Mark of the Cross Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ilyas is summoned to Alannys's quarters in the middle of the night, where he deals with the aftermath of Armand's assassination attempt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for explicit non-consensual sex and sexual violence.

Ilyas’s first sight upon entering Alannys’s quarters was of his queen slumped in her bed, naked and barely conscious. Most prominent was the hideous mark burnt into her slender neck in brindled marks mimicking the links of a chain. And the most sickening of all- the iron cross branded into her once-flawless skin. The flash of red hair at the foot of the bed confirmed his suspicions, and he glared darkly at Armand, lips pulling back from his teeth.

The black-haired captain was in a partial state of undress, clad in just a rumpled tunic and pair of trousers, but even this did nothing to detract from the frightening glint of fury in his eyes. He’d clearly been roused from his sleep and was in no better of a mood for it.

"You cowardly little fuck" Ilyas snarled, pulling a blanket from the bottom of the bed to hide Alannys' nakedness. She was taking gasping breaths and could not speak, clearly in a great deal of pain. As Ilyas draped the blanket around her shoulders, she opened her eyes and reached up to claw at his shoulder, taking another rattling breath and making a small sound. There was fear in her eyes, and fury. Ilyas gritted his teeth. 

“Get the fucking healer! That kitchen girl! _Now_!"

The guard’s retreating footsteps left Ilyas prickling with rage. Gently detaching Alannys’s hand, he stalked foot of the bed where Armand was pinned on the ground. Without a word he drew back his foot and kicked the human in the ribs. Once. Twice. Three times. As hard as he could possibly muster.

The guard pinning Armand down moved aside so Ilyas could crouch down at Armand's side. He grabbed the human by the hair and sharply jerked his head up. "If you thought your life was a living hell now, then I cannot _wait_ to show you all the things to come." Ilyas snarled. Rooting a hand in the hair at the nape of the man’s neck, he dragged him from the room by his scruff.

"When I am done with you, not even your human whore of a mother will recognize your face. And then, when I’ve had my fun, I'll have that healer bitch fix you up so I can do it all over again."

Kicking him several more times so that he could not possibly fight back, Ilyas dragged Armand to his usual place where he was chained standing with his arms stretched painfully above his head.

Ilyas drew his fist back before slamming it into Armand's face. His knuckles barked in pain as they made contact with Armand's jaw bug it was worth it. He was going to beat Armand to a bloody pulp. Again and again he pummeled Armand's face with his fists until they were covered with Armand's blood.

"You might have thought this was your way towards death but you are far from that. I'll make sure that you live out the rest of your miserably short life in constant agony. That's what you deserve, cocksucker." He grabbed Armand by the hair once more and forced his head back so that Armand could look him in the eye. "Do you have anything you want to say to me?"

"I would do it again."

The beating that followed was brief but utterly brutal. Armand, for his part, felt no pity for the woman who had tormented his every waking moment, taking humiliating advantage of him time and time again when he was at his most vulnerable. He would do it again in a heartbeat. 

He had never before been this callous, even during the war. Never before would he have dreamed of laying hand on a woman, let alone a woman in such a defenseless state. Doubtless, if his past self were to see him now, he would think him a cowardly and dishonorable dog. Armand would do nothing to disprove such an assessment. He was thoroughly estranged now more than ever from the codes of valour and honour by which he had once defined himself. But even in vengeance, he had failed.

Hollow amusement echoing through the broken pieces of his shattered faith, Armand allowed himself to go limp, breathing through his mouth. His face was swollen, his nose clotted with blood, and he had lost a tooth, leaving an empty gap in the bottom row. It wasn't a huge loss. After all, there was not much in his life left to lose, now more than ever.

There was no going back now.

"Go to hell." He snarled and spat a wad of bloody saliva, more blood than spit, into Ilyas's face. Now, more than ever, it was exceedingly clear that not only had they failed to break his spirit, they had underestimated the depth of the rage they had left to fester.

Ilyas gave a slow chuckle as he wiped the bloody gob of saliva from his cheek. So the little piece of shit wasn't going to learn his lesson then. If beatings weren't going to break his spirit, perhaps it was time for a change of tactics. Alannys had denied him this thus far, saving this punishment for a 'more suitable time', but Ilyas couldn't think of a time more suitable than now to break the human's spirit.

"I don't believe in hell" Ilyas said. He surveyed Armand's naked body, more scars and bruises now than creamy skin. A tooth glimmered on the ground at his feet. Ilyas idly considered it. Pulling the knight’s teeth out seemed like a grand idea but perhaps Alannys would think it would spoil his good looks.

Then again, Ilyas rather doubted she would want to touch him again after tonight.

Without a word, Ilyas loosened Armand's restraints and hauled him over to the low table that was positioned off to the side. He bent Armand face down over the side and went about cuffing the man’s hands behind his back, securing his ankles to the table’s legs. Armand accepted it with his usual stoicness, prepared to accept the punishment. The silence might have frustrated him before, but Ilyas rather doubted the man would be so docile later when he was balls deep inside of his virgin cunt.

The faerie didn’t bother taking off his shirt, simply unlacing the front of his trousers. Wrapping a hand around the base of his cock, he stepped in behind the former knight. His skin prickled with anticipation. Using his cock to violate Armand would be far different than using an object like he had used before to torment the knight. Male or female, there was nothing better than a virgin cunt.

It was when the expected pain did not arrive that Armand knew he was in trouble.

The position the chains had put him into along with the sound of Ilyas disrobing behind him had realization dawning on him. Dread rose in choking clouds, demanding that he pull on his restraints, thrash and kick and do anything if it would get him out of there. But it was as it always was. He was chained and helpless, unable to stop the assault. 

Ilyas spread Armand's cheeks, probing the tight rosebud of his anus with a thumb. Even after all the work with his toys it still was a tight little entrance, and the faerie could not help but smirk as he forced his thumb inside and twisted it about, fishhooking that tight little hole. His other hand went to Armand's balls to fondle them a bit, giving each a hard warning squeeze. 

Armand laid there, the back of his throat closing up as Ilyas roughly spread his cheeks and inserted a finger. He grimaced at the rough squeeze delivered to his balls. The panic only grew with the uncharacteristic silence, ever more present when Ilyas withdrew to the sound of him spitting. The slick sound of his hand wrapping around his prick was unmistakable. The only mercy was that Ilyas did not care to extend Armand's dread any longer, for a moment later, something pressed against his hole and _pushed_.

It hurt. It hurt _badly_. Armand swallowed a whine of pain, biting the inside of his cheek though it did next to nothing to distract from the burning pain between his legs. Despite all of the humiliating insertions he'd been subjected to, they hadn't been nearly enough to prepare him for any of this. There was no lubrication, nothing to ease the blunt burn of penetration by something that was far too large for his ill-equipped hole. Armand could feel tiny tears opening in the rim with each new push and pull, the ring of flesh rubbed raw by Ilyas's cock.

Ilyas grinned, unable to resist his shudder of pleasure as Armand's walls squeezed down on his shaft, almost painfully tight. He sank deeper into the human's tight little hole until he was sheathed all the way; Armand's cheeks pressed up against the coarse thatch of wiry black pubic hair at the base of his cock. Armand was breathing heavily by the end of it, having pressed his forehead against the table as he strained against his restraints, making choked-off sounds of pain every time that Ilyas so much as twitched. 

That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. Ilyas released Armand’s hips to fist a hand in the back of his hair, forcing his face up from the table. Slowly rocking his hips, he drew a pained sound from the human.

“Tell me where your god is now.”

Even just remaining sheathed inside of Armand’s heat was intensely pleasurable, let alone the implications of the damage this was unleashing on the former knight’s psyche. Ilyas could feel himself hardening even more as he rocked his hips again. 

He leaned in, settling the length of his body along Armand's back, forcing him to feel Ilyas’s weight. His lips found Armand's ear and his sharp teeth bit down on his ear lobe as he began to rock his hips in a slow rhythm, grinding into his victim. "I want to hear you tell me how my cock feels inside of you.” He growled into Armand’s ear. 

Armand was too distracted by the pain of being torn to hear Ilyas's words, only the arousal-roughened burr of his voice, but when Ilyas (his _rapist_ , and how he hated that word for how the violation of it rang true) picked up the pace, he could no longer hold back his voice.

Just as Armand had been merciless with Alannys, Ilyas was very much the same. Each slap of hips produced an obscene sound, and he continued to pull at Armand’s hair as he fucked him, forcing his head up at an uncomfortable angle. This was the ultimate sign of dominance, and Ilyas was going to make sure Armand got a taste of his cock every single day to ensure that he knew his place.

The sounds the two of them made echoed off of the walls of the room. From Ilyas’s bestial growls of pleasure to the meaty strike of his balls slapping against Armand’s ass and Armand’s own pained noises, the slick noises of their coupling echoed in the room. 

The first few noises were just grunts, but a yelp escaped him when Ilyas withdrew practically all the way and brutally slammed back in, and then a gasp after that, and again, and again. Armand twisted his wrists in his chains, knowing full well that there was no way out of this situation, and yet with each burning thrust, only a little easier for that Ilyas's cock was rapidly becoming slick with his blood, he felt as if he were being torn apart. He did not even have the presence of mind to hope that it stung Ilyas as it did the rest of his kind.

"Scream for me, cunt." Ilyas snarled as he picked up his rhythm. His free hand squeezed Armand's hip with bruising strength as his bloodstreaked cock slid in and out of the man at a rapid and untiring pace.

Armand could not reply, but he was too consumed with his shame to hold back the choked whine that escaped him. The pain did not subside. Likewise, his shame only grew with each lewd slap of flesh against flesh. He could do nothing, and that, of itself, was agony to him.

With a snarl, Ilyas slid in as far as he possibly could, releasing Armand’s hair in favor of digging both sets of fingers into the man’s hips, digging bloody crescents with his nails into that creamy flesh as he gave in to the pleasure and came deep inside of the disgraced knight.

It was an utterly humiliating sensation, to be relieved for Ilyas to finally stop, the man's groin pressed flush against his hips, only to feel a peculiar warmth pool inside of him. Armand was confused for a moment before he realized with a jolt of near-debilitating shame that it was the faerie's spend. The slick, obscene sound of his rapist pulling out was only paralleled by the shame which filled him as he felt the warm ooze of unmentionable fluids from his hole, sliding sluggishly down the inside of his thigh.

There was a tight feeling in his chest, a burning at the corners of his eyes as Ilyas, chuckling as he patted Armand once on the ass and relaced the front of his pants. The human's fingers clenched into tight fists, straining at the manacles which held him spread across the table as Ilyas's light footsteps once again rounded the table, bringing the faerie back into his range of vision. 

Armand would have bitten him, had he put his fingers anywhere near his mouth, but Ilyas seized him by the throat instead and his abilities extended only to glaring hatefully up at him, shoving down the wave of raw emotion which welled in his chest.

Not yet.

"This is only the beginning of your punishment. You will regret what you did tonight for the rest of your miserable life." Ilyas told Armand with a sneer. He got a good look at those blue eyes and the glint of spirit in those blue depths. It would be gone soon. Ilyas would make it so.

Without another word, Ilyas turned on his heel, leaving Armand to his misery. With Alannys out of commission, there were things to be done and damage control had to take place.

Only when Ilyas was well and truly gone, the sound of his voice finally gone from the next room over, did Armand allow himself to let go limp. He pressed his forehead against the table and closed his eyes, twisting his wrists. He would not allow himself to weep. To do so would be to admit that _this_ had gotten to him in a way that all of the previous beatings and abuse had not managed to do so.

Too bad that closing his eyes could not stop his thoughts from creeping in. Too bad that closing his eyes could not block out the burning between his legs, or the slow, steady drip of come from his abused body, mixed with the pinkish streaks of his blood.

How could he have failed so badly? Had he truly grown so weak- so weak that he had failed even in his revenge. And what a petty thing it was, revenge. But kick a dog enough times, and it was bound to bite you back. Likewise, the constant abuse and degradation had finally grown too much for Armand to bear, and when he had seen his chance, he had feared that he might never be offered such an opportunity again.

He had sealed his fate the moment the iron had touched her skin. Now, because of his failure, he never _would_ have that opportunity. And when Alannys woke, she would have her retribution, every tortured inch of it. For all his failures, Armand was not fool enough to think that she would offer him the death he deeply desired.


	13. Trial by Combat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Armand faces his punishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for whipping and graphic violence.

Dizziness. Cold. Disorientation.

Blue eyes snapping open, Armand gasped for breath. Water dripped from the shoulder-length waves of his red hair, droplets sliding down his face to drip from the tip of his nose only to spatter on the floor. Yet more slid down the length of his throat, catching on the sharp ridge of his collarbones and the hollow of his throat, and a brave droplet even made it as far as the hollow of his navel, catching in the sparse trail of coarse red hair that bridged navel to groin.

Coughing, for some of the water had made its way up his nose, Armand looked up into the eyes of two stone-faced guardsmen, disoriented and bewildered at the residual ache between his legs. The memories of the previous night came rushing back, along with the deep shame and the looming threat of his punishment.

Armand was still reeling as the two guardsmen, watching him with cold eyes, roughly freed him from his bonds, unstrapping his arms and legs from the table he’d evidently fallen asleep upon last night.

The guardsmen said not a word to Armand as they unchained the dripping wet man from the table and escorted him from the chamber. The halls of the castle were suspiciously empty. It wasn't until they reached the courtyard outside that the question of the missing people was answered.

A great crowd had formed there surrounding a wooden scaffold in the middle. A wooden pole with a ring at its top had been erected on top of the scaffold. Beside it stood Ilyas, grim as ever, and beside him, dressed in white, was Alannys herself. She was bundled up and more ashen than white. A bandage circled her neck, hiding the hideous burn mark from everyone present, and her eyes blazed, burning with a hatred directed solely at Armand.

The people parted to let Armand be escorted past and as he was led through the half frozen slush, the jeers picked up in earnest. Insults of every kind were directed at the human mingled with various types of threats. Someone threw a rotten cabbage at him, striking him in the side of the head, and following that, more objects began to pelt him. They ranged from mud to shit to rotten vegetables and even rocks.

No one seemed to care if Armand was cut up or bruised. They wanted blood. If the guards threw him into the frenzied mob, he would have been ripped to pieces. The shouting only grew louder as Armand was brought to the scaffold, forced up the steps, and chained to the pole at the top, still naked as the day he was born.

Alannys leaned forwards to whisper something to her Knight Captain. She seemed irritated she could not raise her voice herself and had to have someone else do the talking, but her hands were folded before her, holding a nine-tailed whip. Along the length of its tails, small stones were braided into the leather there. They would cut a man open in no time.

"People of Stonehaven, behold the traitor that stands before you!" Ilyas shouted. He was answered by a collective roar, fists waving in the air as if to touch his boots.

“The human you see here is charged with attempted murder of your Queen, the very same who saved his people from slaughter. Turning his nose up at the comforts provided him, he attempted to slaughter her in her own bed!"

Armand actually had to be restrained by the pair of guards busily chaining him to the pole as Ilyas began reading out the charges, twisting this way, then that as if to lurch out of their grasp and propel himself towards the source of the voice he so hated.

The sound of the crowd was as disorienting as anything, individual phrases lost to the roar of hundreds of angry voices, but it did nothing to take away his anger and outrage. A stone glanced off of his cheek below one eye, drawing a stinging dribble of blood, but he hardly noticed it, having caught Alannys's eyes, and there was hate in there, a hate to even rival his own. She had covered up the evidence of what her pride had wrought with a white bandage, but Armand knew what lay beneath, a mark as ugly as her own cruelty.

Ilyas's next words, however, made his mind freeze long enough for the guards to finish chaining his wrists to the top of the pole as it registered the sheer mendacity of the words.

_ Comforts _ ?? The comfort of the flog and the whip, of the thousand demeaning little things that had been done to him- of the sickening scent of his own burning flesh-- the  _ comfort  _ of rape? Perhaps he was a wretched creature after all, a cowardly, worthless shell of the man he had once been to attack a woman in her own bed, but there had been nothing that night Alannys had reaped which she hadn't sown with her own two hands. There were no innocents in this story.

"For his crimes I will administer thirty lashes with the whip. If he still lives then we will proceed with the trial by combat" Ilyas continued, hoping those words would strike some interest in the captive. Holding out his hand, he bowed as Alannys placed the whip in it. The queen stepped to the far edge of the scaffold and Ilyas stepped forward, surveying Armand’s vulnerable form. 

That creamy pale back was going to become nothing but a ropy spiderweb of scars when he was finished.

His breathing, harsh already from the stress of the situation and the struggle against the guards, quickened as booted feet began their approach towards his vulnerable back. But there was only one thought in his head, even as the first strike fell, forcing a cry from his lips. 

_ Trial by combat _ . 

With a  _ CRACK _ , Ilyas brought the whip down between Armand's shoulders. He spared the human no mercy in the force of his strike. The whip immediately drew welts, thin lines of blood welling where the stones braided into the whip’s tail had made contact.

The thought of it was the only thing which allowed him to stay conscious throughout the duration of his punishment, which grew ever more agonizing with each strike against the traumatized flesh of his back. He lost count around 12 strikes, vision starting to fade out around the edges. 

The whip continued to crack down with a few pauses here and there so its wielder could listen to Armand's agonized breathing. The whip broke the skin more and more after ten strikes. Blood began to trickle down the man’s back but Ilyas wanted it to course down, soaking his legs and the floor. He wanted to rip chunks from Armand's back if that was what it was going to take to make him learn his lesson-- That he was a slave. A whore. A mockery of his people and a disgrace to his country. That he was so utterly beneath his betters that his pain did not matter. That he belonged to the queen, and that he would never again raise a hand against her. 

By fifteen, Ilyas was covered with a fine mist of ruby blood. The crowd watched hungrily each time the whip made contact with Armand’s back, having quieted down so they could listen to the wet slap of the leather on the shredded meat of his back.

Blood trickled down his back, following the dip of his spine, tracing the curve of his backside and streaming down his inner thighs in small rivulets, agitated by each new strike. Armand clutched at the chains securing his manacled wrists to the top of the pole, the only thing holding him up at this point, but nothing felt real anymore. There was only the pain of his shredded back, the harsh rhythm of his own breathing, and the dull background roar of the voices of the crowd.

The crowd... It swam in and out of his vision, a sea of faces, the expressions of which he could not make out for his shattered concentration and the fall of the whip's tails against his back. Pointed ears... Glowing eyes... They wanted him dead in the worst of ways. At the edges, he could make out a child's face. A  _ human  _ child, watching with round innocent eyes. But there were more humans at the fringes than just that child, and they were all watching. Another strike landed, and Armand's vision blurred out into washed-out colours.

Suddenly, it was Ilyas's face in front of him instead, sounds slowly resolving into words as he found his chin forced up by the handle of the whip, dripping with still-warm blood.

“...awake, cunt? There's a trial by combat with your name on it. It's usually better if you're awake for it."

_ Trial by combat _ . Armand blinked the tears to the corners of his eyes, making a mighty attempt to draw the tattered fringes of his willpower back, to center himself. He needed every scrap of will he could manage for what was to come next.

The iron tang of Armand's blood was conspicuous in the chilly air as someone tossed a wad of clothing on the ground. There was a shirt, pants, a padded jerkin used for training sessions, and then a leather one to go over that. The human was then unchained and shoved roughly towards the pile of clothing to get himself dressed, regardless of the blood that flowed freely from his shredded back.

"The traitor will now participate in trial by combat!" Ilyas declared to the crowd. "If he overcomes me in the fight, he will walk free." 

"But if he loses, he will pledge loyalty to the Queen." Ilyas continued, drawing a hush from the crowd. "He will be made to swear loyalty before all those in attendance, and he will serve her until the time of his demise. So declares Queen Alannys, first of her name."

It was with a poisonous gleam in his eyes that he jumped off the podium, still shirtless and spattered with Armand’s blood. The crowd parted around him, forming a rough ring. The ground was soft from being stepped on repeatedly. The fresh mud would prove to be a very slippery fighting location.

"Come on then, cunt! We don't have all day! Get dressed and show me the great fighter you were supposed to be!" Ilyas sneered.

His blue eyes were pale from pain in his battered face, but Armand obeyed, barely avoiding tripping over his own feet when he was shoved impatiently towards the small mound of clothing piled on scaffold next to the stairs.

Though it was his shoulder that had received the force of the shove, it did not matter, for it tugged at the ravaged flesh of his back. Armand breathed out sharply, stumbling once as he struggled to swallow the wave of nausea that had risen from the pit of his stomach. 

The weave of the clothing was rough against the pads of his fingers, a simple homespun fabric, and it was immediately obvious that the boots would be too small, built for someone with narrower feet than Armand. He discarded them off to the side, deeming that they would only make the already-grueling fight more challenging than it had to be.

He did his best to ignore the hundreds of eyes on him as he slowly, painfully slid his feet through the legs of the pants, pulling them up over his hips to jeers from the closer onlookers, but his face burned nonetheless. They were rather loose on him, though for all intents and purposes, it seemed as if they should have fit, but the relief that came from having his nakedness ('normal' as it had grown) covered was worth it. The real challenge would be the shirt and padded jerkin.

Looking down at Ilyas, strutting around in the mud like a peacock, glancing up occasionally with those cold grey eyes, Armand knew that the ruthless fae would not be holding back, whatever weapon he chose. The shirt would be meager protection, the jerkin barely worth speaking of, for it was clearly intended for training, not armed combat, but they were better than what he currently had, which was nothing. 

Armand seated himself on the top stair as he took the shirt in his hands and, slowly as he could, eased it over his head. The raw mess of his back, finally starting to go numb with the shock. screamed nonetheless with the smallest movement, and a gasp left his lips as the fabric touched his flesh. His blood immediately began to soak through the shirt, creating blooming patches of red.

The crowd was clearly starting to get impatient as he painstakingly repeated the process with the jerkin, indicated by the swelling volume of their taunts. Armand took the hardened leather breastplate, too, numb to the shake in his hands as he fastened that over top of it all and rose. The crowd jeered as he took the stairs instead of simply leaping down as Ilyas had. Armand endured the jostling from the closest onlookers with gritted teeth, making his way barefooted into the wobbly ring that had formed in the mud.

It felt rather like he was walking to the executioner's block as he stepped into the muddy ring. This was his last chance. He was at a clear disadvantage, bloodied, weak from the whipping, and he could not remember the last time he'd eaten, but if he would be allowed to hold a sword just one more time, he would gladly face a hundred trials like this.

“I’ve a gift for you, Ser Armand.” Ilyas announced, much to Armand’s apprehension. His gaze was demeaning as anything, barely sparing the battered man a once-over before he gestured at one of the armored guards nearby. It was clear he did not think this a true challenge, but from the satisfaction in the way his gaze lingered on the blood soaking through the shirt and jerkin, he would enjoy it nonetheless.

The beckoned guard came forwards with two swords, both of them still sheathed. One of them was awfully familiar looking, and it was with a sinking/rising sensation his stomach that Armand watched as Ilyas drew it from its scuffed leather sheath and tossed it into the mud between them. 

He would recognize that hilt anywhere. The shape of the blade was the same, the groove of the fuller as familiar to him as his own body. He knew the moment that his trembling fingers touched it that it was his sword, the very same which had been taken from him, the one he had thought lost.

Ilyas swung his own sword about lazily in a few circles, testing the weight and balance. His stance, while cocky and aloof, was that of a finely honed warrior. His breathing was even, his weight was mostly on the balls of his feet for light maneuvering, and his gaze was focused. He would have actually enjoyed fighting Armand at his full potential, but his Queen had commanded a humiliating beating in the mud. It would be so. 

Armand readjusted his grip on the hilt as he and Ilyas circled one another, Ilyas more than Armand.

To hold a sword felt odd after so long an absence felt truly odd. Armand had practiced every day with this very blade, oiling, polishing, and sharpening it every night until the motions became as ritual to him. Its absence had been keenly felt, those first three weeks of grueling travel and every night thereafter.

Metal flashed as Ilyas moved, his sword cutting across Armand's thigh to slice into the fabric of his pants and draw a red line of blood. He was bored already. If this was to be a humiliation, he would make it so, but Ilyas wanted Armand's temper blazing so that he could cut it out from under him. He knew it was in there, waiting to be unleashed.

The cut of Ilyas's sword stung his flank. First blood. Armand's lip pulled back in a barely-restrained snarl, but other than that, he kept his cool, knowing full well what Ilyas was trying to do.

The mud was slippery underfoot. Ilyas wore boots, but Armand was barefooted. His feet slid just a little, and Ilyas flew at him again, clearly attuned to any signs of weakness Armand displayed, like a shark drawn to blood. This time, however, Armand was ready for it. The parry came naturally. To shove back against Ilyas with an echo of the strength he had wielded, forcing him backwards a step, pulled something awful at his torn and bleeding back, but it felt so right. Armand pressed forward, his sword sweeping through the air next to Ilyas's head, a blow which the faerie deflected, stepping fluidly away in sharp contrast to Armand's stiff stance, a result of the aforementioned flogging.

Despite the stiff nature of the human's movement, his restraint when it came to ducking, dodging, or any aggressive movements, it was clear that he knew how to wield a sword. There was a telltale space between movements, the practiced grace of his parries and strikes that told a different story. His condition was a pity, his mutilated back a clearer handicap there had never been, and yet the grim expression of determination remained there on his features -the furrowed brow, the clenched jaw- with every ring of striking metal. 

Armand was tiring quickly. His face grew paler by the minute, his strikes lacking power. Crimson blood continued to drip down into the mud at his feet, both from his back and the new cuts inflicted every so often by the smiling Ilyas.

Stubborn boy- would he ever learn that there was a time to yield?

When Ilyas leapt forward, sword aimed for his opponent’s belly, as if to disembowel him, Armand lost his footing in a softer patch of mud, avoiding the sword only by virtue of that he had fallen to the side to an audible laugh from the crowd. Blades clashed against one another in a deadlock. Armand was on one knee, Ilyas on his feet, leaning down as he pushed against his side of their locked blades. The two opponents' faces were scarcely inches apart, Armand's twisted in a grimace as he strained to keep Ilyas at bay.

Steel suddenly slid against one another, Ilyas's blade descending, and yet it was not Armand who was bleeding from new wounds as he stumbled backwards, but Ilyas, who bore a long cut from the side of one high cheekbone all the way across the delicate point of his ear.

Ilyas stumbled back a few steps to put a hand to his face. His fingers came away with blue blood. "You're a slippery little bastard" He chuckled, his breath coming out in soft clouds. The temperature was steadily dropping and little flecks of snow started to fall. He wondered how much time Armand had left before the blood loss and shock got to him.

Charging forward with a throaty growl, Ilyas approached with his sword raised as if he intended to hack into Armand's neck. He changed direction at the last minute, ducked away from Armand's deflecting blow, and slamming the pommel of his sword into the human’s brow.

Armand’s vision whited out momentarily, ears ringing from the blow to the head. He came back to himself a few seconds later, sprawled in the mud, sword knocked from his hand. Ilyas, circling still like some kind of snarling dog, the epitome of jumped-up male aggression, kicked him hard high-up in the ribs, and his vision whited out again around the edges as the pain traveled straight to his mutilated back.

Hazily, his eyes seized upon that telltale glint of metal in the mud off to the side. Just feet away— just out of reach. Armand shook as he doggedly tried to get to his feet, over and over as Ilyas took pleasure in kicking him back into the mud until his forearms, belly, and knees were smeared with mud too.

Green eyes watched the fight, clouded with worry. Adair had worked her way up to the front of the crowd, dirtying the hem of her skirt with mud. She had been in the kitchen when she heard of the punishment, the fight, and had gone out with all the rest of the servants to see what would happen.

Thankfully she missed the whipping. She was able to catch the fight as it went on. Mud flung everywhere as the men circled about, charged and clashed. Armand was pale and trembling, scarcely able to deflect Ilyas’s blows, but he was fighting with everything he had. He was desperate for freedom. She winced as she heard the audible  _ ‘crunch’  _ of the pommel of Ilyas's connect with Armand's face and watched Ilyas kick him down.

"Is that all you can do?" Ilyas roared down at Armand who was showing more mud and blood than skin at that point. "one tiny flesh wound is all you can inflict?"

Ilyas kicked him savagely in the ribs. "are you already finished with the fight? Do you wish to pledge your allegiance and end this mockery of a fight? Say something you filthy piece of shit!" He kicked Armand again, frustrated more than anything that he couldn't break the man's resolve enough.

On hands and knees, Armand remained, taking the kicks that Ilyas liberally gave out as he valiantly but fruitlessly tried to get back up to his feet. He could be commended for sheer stubbornness, if nothing else, as it was clear that even as he struggled, he was bone tired, burning through the meager reserves of energy with each failed attempt.

However, one could pinpoint the exact moment in the fight that something seemed to snap inside of him.

It wasn’t working. He was helpless, like this, his sword just feet away for all that Ilyas seemed intent on beating him to death if he refused to submit.  _ Nothing _ was working. Armand felt a dribble of hot blood trickle down his back, a stab of agony as the other’s booted foot connected with more side than rib. The next kick that landed, however, he caught almost on sheer instinct. His back screamed as he twisted, bodily hauling Ilyas backwards, unbalancing him— He dove for his sword.

His fingers closed around the grip. Armand swung around in a wild arc, barely knocking aside the sweeping blow that had been aimed for his vulnerable back, meeting Ilyas face to snarling face as the dam inside of him blew away. 

They fought now, Armand with a feral intensity to his features as he all but hurled himself at Ilyas in what everyone knew to be the last rallying call of his strength. His strikes were uninhibited, lacking the strength that Ilyas wielded but making up for it for the sheer desperation with which they were wielded. Unpredictability replaced calm. The guiding hand of the extensive training was his saving grace, a marvel that he could be so deadly even in such a sorry state, his sword seemingly an extension of his arm as he pressed onwards. He seemed not to feel the pain of his back any longer.

Armand cut Ilyas twice more, his sword tearing through the flimsy cloth at his opponent’s hip once as he jabbed, certainly bruising the bone beneath, and a second time, opening a long, shallow cut along Ilyas’s shoulder and upper arm that bled profusely as he continued to fight. It was arrogant of him not to wear a shirt, but Armand was all too quickly slowing down.

For all of his furious fighting, his strength was waning. Ilyas could see it in the pallor of his face and the way his feet dragged. Training could only get a man so far when they suffered traumatic injuries. Eventually even the best would fall. So Ilyas played that to his advantage. He danced circles around Armand, staying just out of reach as his own sword licked out to slice here and there. Armand was a bloody filthy mess.

When Ilyas was certain that Armand was reeling with exhaustion, he went in for the kill. He launched a barrage of strikes meant to disorient, and once Armand was tripping over his feet, Ilyas twisted about behind the human fighter and swept his sword along the backs of his knees, slicing through tendons like they were butter.

The sound Armand made as he collapsed to his knees was pure animal pain, as guttural and gut-wrenching as the searing sensation of the blade cutting through the back of his knee like a hot knife. 

“You’re finished, cunt.” Ilyas panted into his ear.

There was no crowd in that moment. No Ilyas, even. Only his pain and the harsh rise and fall of his breathing. He'd lost the match.  _ He'd lost _ . Never again would he be a free man, not until the gods finally saw fit to grant him the peace of death, be that soon or far away. Armand's gaze, devastation evident in the blue of his eyes, rose unprompted to the top of the scaffold. Alannys stood there, an angel in white, her hands folded coolly in front of her, eyes glittering with hate and perverse satisfaction, her mouth curved in a cruel smile.

An unkind hand rooted itself in his hair; his head jerked back so that he could see nothing but her. Alannys dominated his vision as the depth of what this loss meant finally sunk in. "Repeat after me." Hissed Ilyas's voice in his ear. 

And numbly, Armand obeyed. The thought of doing otherwise never even reared its head.

The crowd was silent as Armand repeated the vows of fealty, his voice so flat that only the closest onlookers could make out the words. A sword gleamed in the mud a few paces away, its silvery edge spattered with blue blood, but even after Ilyas released his hair and stepped away from his thoroughly broken opponent, the human, still pinned amid the muck, did not even raise his head to look at it.

His submission was a painful thing to see for any who had known the brilliant flame of the sheer will that characterized Armand's personality, now guttered out, thoroughly quenched by the gutting public defeat at the hands of the man whose life he had so longed to end but did not have the strength to, overlooked by the woman who had now truly taken everything from him.

The crowd seemed to have had its fill of blood lust for now, and Alannys raised a hand to dismiss everyone back to their posts. There was some grumbling and discontentment, but it certainly had been a spectacle to say the least. One of her knights helped her from the scaffold. She held his arm as the pair squished through the muck to where Armand had collapsed on the ground, Ilyas standing over him with sword in hand.

"You will serve three months in the mines behind the fortress." Alannys rasped, her voice hardly above a whisper. There was still a steel to her voice that no assassination attempt would ever take away. This was what made her formidable. Ilyas and others like him ensured that her words remained unquestioned. "If you survive, you will belong to Ser Ilyas."


	14. The Knight Captain Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adair heals Armand's wounds, and Armand learns a little more about his timid ally.

In the wake of Alannys’s departure, Ilyas grinned down at Armand, seemingly oblivious to the dark blue blood dripping from the cut across his cheek. The mud moved slick beneath his boots as he squatted down, tilting Armand’s face up with a few fingers hooked beneath his chin. 

The former knight did not meet his eyes. Ilyas felt a thrill of arousal.

"Finally learned who your betters are, have you?" Ilyas murmured, not so much to his defeated opponent as to himself. “What a good dog.” Releasing his grip on Armand's chin, he stood. Cold grey eyes found a certain redheaded servant girl.

Adair had stayed behind even as the rest of the crowd disappeared, standing ankle deep in the mud with her hands folded in front of her. This traitor at least had the sense to stick around and anticipate when her skills would be needed. 

"Clean him up. He is to be ready for labor, but leave his back half healed.”

“I want those lashes to scar."

Getting back to the kitchens was a grueling process unhelped by the fact that Armand could do next to nothing to help Adair with his weight. His legs were useless, butchered tendons causing him to grit his teeth every time his feet scraped across the ground, which was often, if not most of the time. He slung an arm over her shoulders the second time she slipped in the mud, aiding her efforts to prop up his dead weight.

His back had gone mostly numb, now, save for the spasms that took him when he overextended his arms a few times too many. Armand might have wondered how much of it he would be able to experience sensation in after the half-healing to take place, but truthfully, the thought did not cross him, for he did not care. His mind was frighteningly blank, his head spinning still.

The room the two outcasts finally stopped in was a storage room, one that processed food deliveries to be passed off for preparation in the other chambers further inside. 

Baskets full of potatoes, onions, and other root vegetables sat in a corner, and there was a table for chopping and sorting where an array of knives hung neatly from hooks on the whitewashed walls. Adair helped Armand over to where a drain had been situated in the floor and crouched down beside him to strip him of his soiled clothing.

"It was a one-sided fight." Said the faerie girl, tugging the quilted jerkin from Armand’s torso. It was slashed across the front and heavy with blood. "Another man might have given up long before you did."

He moved mechanically, allowing Adair to help him out of the leather overgarments, though to raise his arms even halfway caused a particularly bad spasm through his shredded back, and he hissed lowly through his teeth. Her words were the only other things to elicit a response. Armand laughed, not sounding very amused at all, and then started to cough, hunching over as much as he could until it subsided. Bruises bloomed like red and blue roses on his ribs, and his back was a flayed mess of shredded skin, drying mud, and clotting blood. It was a wonder he was not unconscious yet.

Armand, swaying slightly, made no other response to her words. He would not raise his eyes to meet hers. They were the colour of flat blue lakes, none of their previous fire recognizable within their depths. It was clear that he would have preferred death to this twilight existence.

The sound he made when cold water was poured over his flayed back was gut-wrenching. It was less a cry than an animal scream that petered out halfway as his voice gave out and he slumped forward, muscles relaxing fully as consciousness finally left his tortured body.

The blood now gone, she could clearly see the extent of his wounds. Obviously his back was the worst. It looked as though someone took a pickaxe to his flesh and carved out literal chunks in certain places. In others, flaps of skin hung loose. Bile rose up in her throat, but even trying to quash it, she failed miserably.

Armand was not awake to hear her shame as Adair abruptly scrambled back, away from the drain- away from where she'd been examining his back. She was violently sick for a few moments, the sounds of her violent retching echoing off the walls.

Back to work. With Armand unconscious at last, her job was easier for it.

Her palm pressed against open muscle, flayed open to reveal the faint white sheen of bone beneath. She couldn’t repress her shudder, nor the horror as she continued on to the next wound, and the next, each sapping her strength from her more thoroughly than a hard day’s work ever could. How many times had Ilyas struck him?? There had been 30 lashes, if she remembered rightly, but this damage made it seem like there had been many more than that.

30 lashes.

The crack of the whip still echoed in her ears.

Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she reduced the next ragged gash in his tortured flesh to a scabbed-over scar. Stopping halfway through the process to leave such a permanent and debilitating reminder of the humiliating abuse Armand had suffered left her sick with guilt. It was an abomination, a despicable misuse of a power meant to heal. 

She was nearly done when Armand, limp on the cold floor, finally stirred again, making a soft sound of discomfort at the deep itch of his body healing. She stopped him from rising with a cool hand pressed against his shoulder, not restricting his movement but reminding him of his situation as she silently continued to press her power into his battered body, which absorbed it like a sponge, muscle and tissue knitting back together, forming ridged scars to join the rest of the ropy scar tissue on his skin. 

“You will be going to the mines.” Said Adair, sitting back as Armand, every muscle of his body trembling slightly, as he pushed himself back to a sitting position. She resumed her position behind him, pushing the last of her energy into a shallow cut that curled over the rise of his shoulder.

"I won't lie and say it's not a miserable place. You won't see the sun while you are there. It is where Alannys imprisons the people she does not like.” 

Shoulders hunching unconsciously, Armand tried to control his breathing as if that could also control the pain of her bare skin touching his flayed-open flesh. It hurt as it always did, but the deep itch of flesh knitting itself back together (and what a wonder it was that he was not entirely a patchwork of scars by now) soon moved to another area, leaving behind the phantom pain of nothing.

Privately, he thought that anywhere he would not have to deal with Alannys and Ilyas's combined cruelties would be better than here. He had no doubt that if he were not crushed by a tunnel collapse, the first week of coming back to the castle with his new lot in life ( _ a slave--  _ Ilyas's  _ slave _ ) would be just as miserable.

He had not seen much sunlight as of late anyways.

"Thank you." In case he did not return. He owed her at least that.

To his surprise, her cheeks flushed, tinting blue as if from the cold, and she ducked her head as she examined his knee, channeling her magic to flow into the sliced tendons. However, he was soon distracted from the unusual reaction as he hissed in pain, knuckles going white as he clenched his hands into fists.

The girl took a break after finishing his back, which, by now, was a ropy mess of scar tissue. She got to her feet to wash the blood off from her stinging hands, then, almost like an afterthought, brought back a bucket of water. She dunked it in and took a few thirsty gulps before refilling it and holding it up to Armand's lips so he might drink as well.

"Where did you grow up?" Adair asked to break the silence once more. Apart from that, she had an inappropriate curiosity about this human that kept ending up under her care. Surely after all she had seen and touched, she was obligated to know more about the mysterious creature treated so poorly by the Queen.

"Do you have any family?"

The cool water soothed the dryness of his throat, a bead escaping in his hurry to swallow it down. It spilled down his chin, and he had not the energy to wipe it away. Adair must have sensed that he was thirsty, for she offered him another ladle, which he gladly accepted. He was still in rather too much pain to contemplate eating without feeling faint nausea, but the pain was much less than before, and his mind was strangely flat. He would not say calm, for there was far too much going on beneath the still surface to call it that, but 'flat' was adequate, like the swollen surface of a lake after a storm.

Used to the lulls in conversation, for the two of them did not often have a chance to talk, nor the energy, most days, her question took him by surprise, and he actually found himself fumbling for an answer. His home? He had not thought about it in years, and the name was slow to rise to his lips.

"Hartford." Even the shape of it on his tongue felt unfamiliar, now. Realizing that Adair would not know anything about Albion's geography, he called words to his tongue again. They felt slow, thick in his mouth. "It is a small town in the south…

“Perhaps a league from the Kingsroad."

His family... He did not often dwell on his mother, for she was long gone, a victim of an outbreak of fever that had swept through their home when he was 12. Armand himself had been one of the victims as well, but unlike his mother, he had managed to make a full recovery. His errant father was not worth mentioning. When Armand had escaped to the army at 19, it had become his family in a way he had not had for many years.

"Two sisters." Armand said, after a pause. How long had it been since he'd seen them last? Marie, last he saw her, had been happily married, making a tidy living managing a roadside inn with her husband. Three children, two boys and a girl, all with the same red hair as their mother running around the establishment, and another on the way. Celia, the elder of the three of them, had married a rich merchant. Armand hadn't seen her since he was twelve. It shamed him that he did not know whether she still lived.

"What of you?" He asked, finding to his surprise that he  _ was _ genuinely interested in the life of a faerie. "Have you any kin?"

When he in turn enquired about her kin, her hands stilled. Her voice was flat when she answered him, as if she were giving him the state of the weather instead of something so personal.

"They're all dead.”

She said quietly, then looked down at her hands, biting her lip. They were perpetually red and chapped from the harsh soaps used for scrubbing pots and pans. Her fingernails were short and ragged, and callouses marred her palms. There was a faint sheen of sweat at her temples. 

Armand's face gradually lost its usual guarded air as Adair continued to speak, her voice soft enough that he could easily sense the emotion beneath the surface. 

"My eldest brother, Gwylim, had hair like yours. Bright red like fire. Stubborn as an ox as well. I'm sure you two would have gotten along rather well" She said softly, eyes focused vaguely on the region of his midsection she healed the gash at his hip. She did not look him in the eye, and her cheeks were still slightly blue. 

She looked distinctly sad for a moment, but also weary in a way that someone with such a young face should not have to feel. He felt... something stir within him, soft enough that it could easily be brushed off in favor of a stronger emotion. A sense of kindred spirit, perhaps.

The two of them were more alike than one draw at first glance, it seemed. It was obvious from the tone in which she delivered her words that Adair had not led an easy life; the interactions he had observed between she and Ilyas starting to make more sense the more he turned them over in his mind. He slowly straightened after the warmth of her hands finally left his back, feeling the unfamiliar tension of the new scar tissue pulling across his back as his shoulders moved.

How weary he felt, and stiff, and worn. Exhaustion hovered at the edges of his conscious, and grief. 

Armand listened intently to Adair's words, drinking in the welcome distraction like the luxury it was. Her refusal to look further down than his stomach was a welcome novelty as well, despite the itch of embarrassment he felt for his nakedness yet again. He did not know what to say to her comment about the similarities between himself and her elder brother. His conversation skills had never come close to matching his ability in swordplay. Even when he was not holding his tongue, he spoke less than propriety demanded. 

"How old are you then? It is my understanding that humans live short lives. The luckiest reach their sixtieth year." Adair continued, obviously changing the subject. Armand seemed young enough but there was a maturity in his face that told her he was also experienced with hardship.

Feeling almost relief when she hastened on to another question, Armand propped himself up on an elbow.

Their fingers bumped, hers warm, his cooler- knuckle against knuckle. It was purposeful on Armand's part, a silent entreaty to stop the magic flowing from her palms. The worst of his wounds were gone, and he could not help but feel incompetent in such situations, lying useless on the floor while she labored over him.  _ Rest for a moment, _ it said.

She obliged without comment, her cheeks flushing once more. It was an uncanny thing when the fae blushed, their coloring taking on a purplish tone.

"I suppose that I must be one of the luckier, then." Said Armand. He did not feel a great deal of pleasure to make such a statement, something his tone doubtless indicated. He had seen far too many men younger than himself die on the battlefield, and to be here still, especially after he had sworn an oath to the woman responsible for so many of his countrymen's deaths, felt disrespectful to their memory somehow. 

"Six and twenty years." 

It was a respectable age. By all rights, by now he should have settled down with a young wife and had several red-haired brats of his own. Even so, at his age, he had still been too young to have held the position he once held. The fact that he was low-born among other men of similar positions, men of middling and high birth, had only been more cause for resentment.

"You've seven years on me then" Adair said and went to the water bucket to drink once more from the ladle again. She settled back against the leg of the table briefly and stretched her sore arms up above her head. Her sleeves rode down to reveal those scars on her wrists again but she either didn't notice or care. Armand watched her get to her feet, leaving dry flakes of mud where she had been sitting. The hem of her dress was caked in it and the rest of it smeared with traces of blood and more from when she had supported Armand as she dragged him off.

"Stay there." she told him.

Adair was gone for about ten minutes. There was some gruff scolding from behind the closed door but no one came to bother Armand as he was left unattended. But then she was back and she brought with her food. More importantly she had a sack tucked carefully under her thin arm as well, one that proved to be full of clothing as she dropped it next to Armand. The clothing was sourced from one of the storage rooms, left behind by the castle's original inhabitants. Shoes, shirts, doublets, pants. Whatever she found she tossed them into the sack. Hopefully Ilyas would approve of her proactiveness.

"I'm not sure if anything will fit but it's better than nothing" Adair said and eased herself back down on the floor, setting down two wooden bowls full of a barley stew swimming with vegetables and herbs. The cook may have been a bitch but she knew how to serve up a fine meal. Adair held her own bowl close and began to spoon small morsels into her mouth, blowing on the hot food carefully instead of shoveling it in like she wanted to.

"And make sure you eat. Now that you’ve estranged yourself from the Queen’s good graces, you will get meal a day, two if you’re lucky. You learn to lick up every last drop" Adair continued to say. She scooped up a piece of potato and bit into it, savoring the flavors of thyme and red wine it had soaked up.

One side of Armand's mouth quirked up as he held a doublet that looked like it'd been eaten alive by moths up to the light. It did well to hide his face, despite its tattered appearance. "Of course." He acceded, not bothering to insist that such things were already well-known to him. Despite the position he had held, Armand had eaten much the same fare as his men. One meal a day, and, recently, less than that.

Leaving the bowl of stew where she had set it down, less to cool than to put it off, as to give his clenching gut a break, he found a pair of pants easily enough. Made of rough homespun material, they weren't so loose on him as the other pair had been. The sensation of fabric on his bare skin was itchier than he remembered. Finding a shirt that would fit him turned out a harder task, with most of them either too loose or too small. He ended up settling on a white shirt that probably would have fit him well perhaps a year ago but was loose on him now.

The white fabric of the shirt contrasted against the red of his hair rather well. One could easily see the draw of his looks, though even as his features were resting, neutral, there was an air of melancholy to him that had seemingly replaced the fire of before.

Finding a pair of boots that, to his surprise, fit him rather well, Armand set them aside and took one of the more well-worn shirts, which he began to systematically tear into strips. Their purpose remained a mystery, as he tucked them into his belt, making no move to use them now.

Clearly not feeling any true want for it, Armand took the bowl of stew from the floor. Cradling the spoon between middle, index, and thumb, bowl held in the other hand, he took a shallow spoonful. Melted fats and herbs floated on the surface, and his spoon withdrew with a chunk of potato. His stomach clenched as he lifted it to his lips, but Armand opened them anyways and set to eating the stew without much enjoyment. It was no fault of the stew, but rather, his current mental state.

"Things will improve now." Adair said softly. "Eventually their attention will drift."

She paused a moment, teeth on her lip.

"If you can, find me tomorrow before you leave" She told him, glancing briefly up at his face. Her own features were carefully neutral. Cleaned up and clothed, the human looked far more civilized, though the brand at his neck stuck out like a sore thumb.

_ I will _ . Lingered on the tip of his tongue. But perhaps it was best he did not make promises. Time and time again, he had proven that he could not keep them.

The door blew open, and out from the cold entered a familiar figure. Ilyas did not bother to shut it behind him, taking in the two of them with cold eyes.

“How sweet.” He said caustically. A blue scab marred his otherwise flawless features, something that looked as though it would heal within a few days. Such was the magic of the fae. “I trust you’ve healed his wounds.” Adair nodded. She had gone rather pale. Likewise, Armand's posture had stiffened radically the moment the door blew open, bringing along with it the cold wind and the scent of stone. 

"Up to your feet then, dog. It's getting late and I want to put your loyalty to the test before you leave in the morning." Ilyas said to Armand, his eyes flat and hard, and gestured for him to get up. He otherwise didn't acknowledge the faerie female sitting across from Armand. As of now she wasn't worth his time. He had something more exotic.

Ilyas turned on his heel, expecting Armand to follow him like the obedient follower he had sworn to be. 

Armand’s shoulders stiffened, eyes initially settling on Ilyas, absorbing his words before he slowly reached for the pair of boots a little ways off to the side. Evidently not quickly enough, by the barked order to get up. Armand did not meet Adair's eyes as he got to his feet, sliding his feet into the boots and grabbing the overshirt he had picked from the top of the pile before he followed after Ilyas with nary a glance backwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all those who've commented so far. Your feedback is what makes it possible for me to continue!


	15. The Knight Captain Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armand struggles to adjust to his new lot in life-- beneath Ilyas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for explicit non-consensual sex.

Their boots clicked against the stone floors, the echo of it gradually fading out of Adair's ability to hear.

Though he knew what was coming next, it made him sick to contemplate exactly what Ilyas had planned for the night, shamed that Adair undoubtedly knew too. She was, by now, intimately familiar with his body, perhaps more than anyone else, but that still did not take away from the fact that she knew. The security he had felt as he put on the clothing earlier meant nothing, now. The best he could hope for was that Ilyas did not damage it or take any of it from him.

The wind blew cold against his face. It was a bit of a walk from the kitchens to Ilyas's quarters, located in roughly the same area as the queen's, and Armand was acutely aware of his own exhaustion, only preventing himself from tripping over his own feet several times only by virtue of his own concentration, but that too was rapidly fading. 

Ilyas's room was stark compared to the Queen's. Though he was located down the hall he did not seem to share in the frivolous appreciation for the finer things like she did. There was a large bed covered with furs, a desk laden with maps and paperwork, an armoire, and a trunk. Other than that there was no decoration. 

Once the door was shut, Ilyas turned to Armand with a faint smile on his lips. He appraised the man's mostly whole appearance. Though he looked tired, he didn't look nearly as pathetic as he had earlier. He was even clean.

"She does a nice job of getting things done. Doesn't balk at a man's cock like most girls do." Ilyas remarked, beginning to shed his cloak and boots. A fire made the space warm and cozy but there was still a chill that permeated the air, radiating from Ilyas himself. "Then again, what right does a traitor have to complain anyways?"

Adair's timidness around Ilyas was starting to make more sense. Though it made his hackles rise, Armand put Ilyas's comment away for another time. Now was not the time to internalize. If he could get through this without thinking at all, he would certainly be better off for it. Armand watched Ilyas put away his belongings, stripping down until he was stark naked as he stowed the rest of his belongings in the armoire. He noted with a detached sense of dread that the man’s cock was already half hard, bobbing between his legs.

"Strip." Ilyas commanded. "The faster you do it the less inclined I will be to use my switch on you. From this point forward you will be used for my personal satisfaction. That is your point in your miserable life until you prove yourself  _ trustworthy _ to do more, traitor."

"When you're stripped you will get down on the bed and lie there quietly. Am I understood?" Ilyas said, tone turning sharp.

"Yes." Armand gritted out. "I understand."

He forced his fingers to move, undoing the laces of his shirt and pulling it over his head before he could think about it. He pulled his boots off, setting them aside, fingers fumbling to unwrap the foot bindings fast enough, which he dropped into either boot before moving on to his pants. Ilyas's eyes burned the back of his neck, the scabbed-over mess of his back, his flank. Drawstring untied, the fabric scraped against the fine hairs on his legs as he pulled them off and discarded them onto the pile on the floor.

Naked again. He should have at least expected it. 

Turning towards the bed, his hesitation was clear on his face, but his legs were already moving, carrying him past the desk full of stationary, towards the luxurious bed. The shame rose up within him as he felt the softness of the furs against his bare hands and knees, pressing against his stomach as he laid there as instructed. How easily he had submitted.  _ It could have been this easy the whole time _ . A voice whispered poisonously. _ After all that pain, here you are, whoring yourself out to your enemies. I wonder if your king knew this is how you would be serving your country when he sold you to them. _

Jaw clenching hard enough to ache, Armand stared doggedly ahead, fingers fisting in the furs as he heard the rustle of movement behind him. His shoulders were tense, fraught with a tension that refused to leave.

"Any time I ask you a question, you will respond with 'yes, captain'. Bright thing that you are, I'm sure you'll have no problems remembering it." Ilyas said silkily as he watched Armand get onto the bed. So willing he was as he laid on his stomach, offering up himself like an obedient little dog. But he was still tense, and that was not permitted.

Ilyas slapped Armand's ass, leaving behind a red print on the cheek that he had struck. "You are going to teach yourself to enjoy your time with me. If I'm feeling like I'm fucking a plank, I will turn you over to the laborers. I’m certain they’ll have plenty of fun passing a fresh-faced thing like you around."

The bed creaked beneath his weight as Ilyas crawled up onto it, pulling Armand back by the hips, which he viciously dug his fingers into. He coated one finger with the oil he’d retrieved from the armoire and set about easing a finger into his new property. Tight, still, even after yesterday’s fucking. What a shame he was being sent off to the mines tomorrow. One finger slid in and once he felt the tightness lessen then another soon followed, thrusting slowly in and out, the silence punctuated by the slick noises of his oiled fingers.

Ilyas got Armand up onto his hands and knees. While he continued to fuck the man’s tight hole with two fingers, his other went around to fondle his cock, stroking up and down and squeezing when needed to excite the organ against its master's will. Armand’s discomfort was palpable, but it only made Ilyas grin when the man did not say anything to protest the treatment.

Once Armand was liberally oiled up and aroused, Ilyas grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up to a kneeling position, ordering him to stay put. It was his turn to lie back against the pillows. His cock throbbed with need, but it would be satisfied soon. Very soon. With an expectant expression on his face, he handed Armand the bottle of oil.

"Rub it in well. This is all the help you’re getting before I take you again." He told Armand. His grey eyes were still harsh but alight with the thrill of tormenting Armand to new ends. "You're going to climb up and sheathe my cock in that tight little cunt of yours.” He chuckled at Armand’s expression, reaching out to tap his cheek with the flat of his palm. “Don’t look so aghast. I'm sure you've been ridden by countless whores. Now it's your turn to do the riding.”

Only by forcibly distancing himself from his thoughts, locking them behind the barrier he'd started to construct as soon as he'd been told to strip, could Armand bring himself to follow Ilyas's instructions. His face was carefully blank as he crawled forward between the faerie's spread legs, the tiny bottle of oil still clenched in the palm of one hand. Uncurling his fingers as if they were numb, Armand uncorked it and poured a liberal amount into his hand.

His hand was unfamiliar at first, more spreading the oil across Ilyas's cock than actually rubbing it, but after a moment, he seemed to find his bearing and the motion became less mechanical. His hands were rough and calloused, the friction smoothed only by the oil, but the motion became more sure, stroking up and down with a little squeeze at the base and twist of his thumb across sensitive glans at the head that was definitely the self-improvisation of a man using his own tricks on someone else. Armand applied another coating of oil, continuing until Ilyas snapped at him to hurry up.

It was a pity that Armand had never been with a man before Ilyas. And obvious, evident from the way that he fumbled to situate himself atop of Ilyas, settling, at last, with a hand circling the base of Ilyas's cock, the other rooted in the furs, steadying himself there rather than touch any part of Ilyas more than he had to. His distaste for the man rose in the back of his throat like bile, but he did not allow himself to think of the situation he was in.

The head of Ilyas's cock pressed up against the pucker of Armand's hole. This time, however, it was not Ilyas forcing his way in, but Armand slowly sinking down onto Ilyas's cock, shame red and blotchy at his ears, throat, and the back of his neck with each new inch. About a third of the way down, he paused, acutely aware of the shaking of his inner thighs. It did not necessarily feel  _ bad _ \- merely intrusive. Just another violation, one of countless. It burned but it did not hurt as he had expected it to, doubtless because of the preparation beforehand, but as he sank down another inch, the blunt head of Ilyas's cock pressed against something that made Armand's hips twitch involuntarily. He immediately rose up slightly on his knees, shifting away from that spot inside of him with an expression that may have been surprise on his face, wary of the sensation, because, for a moment, it had felt almost  _ good _ . None of this was supposed to feel good.

Ilyas watched as Armand slowly impaled himself on Ilyas’s cock, a slight grin twisting the corners of his mouth. The man's face was flushed and it was spreading rapidly down his neck and chest. Either it was arousal or embarrassment. Ilyas guessed it was the latter. He caught the twitch of Armand's hips and the surprise on his face, and a sharp grin made itself at home on his sharp teeth.

"Find something you like?" Ilyas asked in an amused voice. One hand reached out to grasp Armand's cock, rubbing a thumb over the tip in slow circles. "Go ahead. Rub my cock against it." Ilyas coaxed but it was more or less a thinly veiled order. Armand’s discomfort was the cherry on top. He wanted him to come, to lose himself to the bliss, and then to hate himself afterwards.

"I want to see you fuck yourself on my cock. Drop the timid act, Ser Knight." 

How he hated the sound of Ilyas's voice. 

Armand worked on steadying his breathing, hating his body's physical reaction to the unwanted pleasure just as much as he loathed Ilyas's touch. For all his hatred, this was physically easier on so many levels more than the brutal rapes he'd been subjected to before. He would come out of this physically undamaged, but there was no pretending anymore. He had assisted in his own rape; taken pleasure in it, even. 

Shuddering as he slowly sank down again, the head nudged up against that torturous place inside of him. His body was taking it easier with each tentative rock of hips, the burn of Ilyas's thick cock stretching him lessening as he slowly acclimated to the stretch of it. The hand teasing his cock squeezed, drawing a harsh inhale from him.

Distracted by the sweet sting of pleasure, the almost painful stimulation from inside, the shifting of the man below him had him nearly losing his balance, the cock inside of him sinking deeper than it had before as Armand, icy panic clawing at his chest, slipped forward, catching himself with trembling arms on either side of Ilyas’s chest. 

He was overcome by the stretch and burn, the stab of Ilyas's cock almost buried to the hilt inside of the tight heat of his body. Armand's forehead, with a sheen of sweat, pressed briefly against the muscular pane of Ilyas's chest, a shuddering breath leaving him. His thighs were starting to shake, but whether from exhaustion or arousal, that remained unsure. The truth was that he was barely fit to be awake, much less 

He stiffened as a hand alit upon his head. Ilyas stroked Armand's hair, smoothing it from his brow as if he meant to be comforting. It was not. 

Ilyas was tired of this defiance. Tonight, he wanted to be pleased, and he was going to get it even if he had to take it from Armand’s worthless trembling body. Unkindly fisting his fingers in Armand's hair, he forced his head back up, examining those blue eyes. "Where's that fierce warrior at, hmm? I fought one today, but all I see before me now is a shivering little bitch.”

With no warning, he backhanded the man hard across the face. As Armand reeled back, a hand rising- perhaps to defend, perhaps to retaliate- Ilyas shoved him from his lap with a firm hand to the center of his chest, unseating his cock from inside and sending Armand to his back upon the covers of the bed.

"If you want to act like a bitch, I can certainly oblige." Ilyas said coldly. He grabbed Armand's legs and instead of leaving them laying flat on the bed, forced them up against his chest. “Hold that position.” He ordered, a sneer twisting his mouth as Armand, taking initiative for once in his life, wrapped his arms around his trembling thighs, preventing them from slipping from the position. He made a pretty picture like this, almost inviting were it not for the grief in his eyes. The boy was useless, but from this angle, Ilyas would be able to penetrate even deeper than normally.

Lining his cock up with Armand’s heat, which fluttered weakly as he pressed in with a groan, Ilyas began to rock into that tight, pliable hole. This attack was slow and calculated. Ilyas would pull out almost to the tip and then slide back in with agonizing slowness, aiming each time for that spot that made Armand gasp in unwilling pleasure. Gradually he picked up speed to a moderate pace but he kept the target of his strokes the same. It was a different sort of torture. 

Nothing was better than the sight of Armand gasping and writhing as forced pleasure exploded within him. Well, perhaps one thing. Ilyas lowered his head so that he could lick a long stripe up Armand's neck and the dip of his collarbone. His sharp teeth grazed the skin there, and his tongue even grazed the man’s cheek, turned away in shame. He tasted like salt. Like tears.

"I want to hear you." Ilyas told Armand, his tongue tasting the raised scar of Armand's brand before he bit down on the man's earlobe.

He could not move, nor fight. In truth, he could barely breathe. Between the exhaustion stemming from the healing of the wounds he had sustained today and the overwhelming nature of the multiple conflicting sensations he was receiving all at once, from all sides- pain and pleasure, the sting of his recently-mended tendons being pushed to their limits and the tremble in his inner thighs -he could not think beyond the simple thought of getting this ordeal over with. It was almost worse than being taken against his will, for to  _ feel  _ was a betrayal of the self.

The pleasure was excruciating, his shame acute. Almost worse was that Ilyas had given him the chance to control this--  _ This _ \- whatever it was. And he had failed yet again.

Salt beaded on his skin; his thighs jammed up against his chest, his forearms pressed against the lean muscle of his thighs. The space between grew slick and sticky with sweat. It was frighteningly intimate, and if not for the steady stream of abuse coming from Ilyas's lips, cold eyes, and Armand's bloodied lip from the force of the other's backhand, it might have seemed like a moment stolen between lovers. 

It was not. Armand did not feel Ilyas lick over the raised scars of the brand, but he certainly felt the fae's sharp teeth on his earlobe. It drew a shiver and a low growl deep in the man's throat.

Armand's panting grew harsh, and though his other noises were kept to a minimum, his eyes were tightly closed, reddish-blonde eyelashes touching his cheeks in an obvious attempt to distance himself from the pleasure that was all but turning him inside out as he tried to resist it. 

This situation, however, was too much like the nightly sessions Alannys had enjoyed forcing upon him. She had never managed to train him to the degree of obedience that she had wanted, but now, on his back again, it certainly could be agreed that the conditioning was certainly still there.

Ilyas drew out and slammed back in with an obscene slap of flesh, his cock scraping tortuously against that place deep inside of him. Again and again, his pace slowly picking up until he was truly fucking into the human, Armand starting to pant as the two of them rutted like animals. 

Ilyas struck Armand a few more times about the face as the man began to squirm and pant beneath him. He liked seeing the other’s body grow slick with sweat and see him struggle with the reality of what was happening, the absence of a beard and the way he squeezed his eyes shut making him seem even younger. It was inescapable. The tension squeezing down around his aching cock sufficed to let Ilyas know that his slave was getting closer and closer to his release, so he only increased the force of his thrusts, grunting over Armand as he drove the man to climax.

Ilyas followed suit after that, spending his seed deep inside Armand and filling him up good. “ _ This _ is what you were made for, cunt.” He growled, breath coming out in harsh pants against Armand’s face. “ _ This _ is all you are worth.” He accentuated his words with a little buck of his hips that fucked his spend even deeper into his captive’s body.    
“Remember it.” With a growl, he grabbed Armand's throat and squeezed him tight as he slowly pulled out. They were both sweaty, sticky, oil slicked messes and the scent of lust was thick in the air. 

"Good thing you’re tight.” Ilyas sneered, examining the ooze of his seed from Armand’s stretched hole. “You've about as much finesse in bed as a holy woman, but we'll have time to work on that once you’re back from the mines." There wasn’t as much blood this time. About time. Ilyas had been getting tired of Armand’s wretched blood burning his cock when he fucked him, though the burn had sometimes made it even more exhilarating. 

Rolling out of bed, Ilyas went to wash himself up, but forbade Armand from doing the same or even from moving from the position there where he had left him on the bed. This was something Armand could not distance himself from. He was filthy, and used, and he was going to  _ feel  _ the shame of Ilyas’s spend within him. By the time Ilyas had finished washing, the man’s legs were visibly shaking, and with a laugh, Ilyas finally allowed him to drop the position.

After that the candles were all blown out and Ilyas got back into bed, though not before he booted Armand to the rug at the foot of the bed. Dogs didn’t sleep on beds, after all, so why should slaves? 

Besides, he didn’t want his blankets soiled.


	16. To the Mines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for non-consensual oral sex.

Ilyas slept like a rock that night, perhaps eased by the unwilling captive in his bed. Morning came too soon, however, and with it, more unpleasantries, the first of which had Ilyas rousing the both of them before sunup. He kicked Armand awake, dragging him to his knees to where Ilyas sat at the foot of the bed so that he might deal with Ilyas's morning erection and have his first 'breakfast'. Ilyas gained far more pleasure from having the man submit, versus being gagged and fighting his every thrust, and his fingers stroked the russet strands of Armand's hair as he awkwardly brought him to completion. 

After he’d spent his seed, forcing Armand against his groin with white-knuckled fingers so that he wouldn’t waste a drop, Ilyas turned away and went to dress himself. "Dress yourself and see to it that you get breakfast in the kitchens. I expect you to be in the courtyard at sunrise. Am I understood?"

After such a long night, breakfast should have sounded agreeable, especially for someone who had eaten so little as Armand had. But where he still knelt on the hard floor, queasy breaths rising and falling shallowly, he could think of nothing but purging himself of Ilyas’s  _ essence _ .

“Yes, Captain.”

Finding the pile of clothing on the floor, he pulled his pants on first, as quickly and quietly as he could. Even just the brief walk from the bed had disturbed the unholy mix of fluids inside of him, and he could feel what remained of it starting to dribble down. Though he wanted nothing more than a bucket and a wet cloth to clean himself, that would have to wait until he left Ilyas’s chambers. Armand dressed as quickly as he could, leaving the laces of his shirt untied and stuffing the foot wrappings into the side of his waistband as he pulled on the thick tunic, which was lined with rabbit fur and had probably belonged to some minor lordling. It did not matter. They were dead now.

He pulled on the boots and left Ilyas to his dressing in front of the armoire, sickeningly glad that the faerie paid no more attention to him now that he’d had his fun. The winter wind was chill that morning, the dawn grey. Armand estimated less than half an hour to sunup, and walked faster. He hoped that he might see someone before he left.

There was next to no-one around the cavernous of the keep, but once he entered the kitchens, it was like a humming beehive of busy activity. Wherever he walked, all eyes were on him. Some were frightened, others disdainful— other speculating. The fat woman he recognized as the one who had bathed him his first day here was fearless as she marched up to him, eyes flicking up and then down, taking in his disheveled state, the cold-reddened tips of his ears and nose.

“Ilyas’s pup.” She said, with a derisive snort that could have meant any number of things. “Is he hungry? Tired after his long night playing roll-over with the wolves?” Her finger poked the middle of his chest. “Tell me— how was our lord’s  _ hospitality _ , hm?”

Armand heard himself flush more than felt it, the blood rushing through his head as anger and shame rose within him, battling for dominance.

Adair happened to walk in after coming from the well, hauling in two heavy looking buckets of water. Snow crusted her dark reddish curls, also having settled on her shawl-covered shoulders. She set the buckets down by the door and paused, seeing the main cook jabbing a finger at a very red faced Armand.

_ So he did come,  _ she thought with relief.

"Brenna, leave him be. The human is one of us. You saw him swear it yesterday," Adair said, careful to keep her voice calm and not assertive to avoid getting the woman's wrath directed at her.

The hefty woman turned to glare at the mousy snow covered girl and huffed, planting both of her hands on her hips. "Traitors don't belong in my kitchen. Especially traitors and faerie killers," She told Adair. "You're lucky you don't spend your nights in the kennel like you deserve." Apparently done making her point, however, she stalked off, shoving past Adair.

Adair rubbed her hands together and took a calming breath before approaching Armand. Seeing him actually standing and dressed, he was handsome in a delicate sort of way- not that anything about him was delicate, especially compared to the beauty of the fae, but there was a certain sort of fragility to his features that morning. Grief, undoubtedly. She touched his arm lightly and drew him off to a corner where a low table and a set of stools sat.

"Sit down," Adair told him, a command, but a kindly one. He smelled strongly of Ilyas. The captain’s scent reminded her of rain soaked stone. It had permeated the clothing and air around Armand. His cracked lip told her well enough what he had been doing that night but she didn't comment. She'd been there and probably would go back to it when Armand was gone.

Leaving Armand where he sat, she left him to find some breakfast. It was about five minutes later when she came back with a few slices of dark bread, some cheese, and a mug of fresh goat's milk. Sliding the plate and mug forwards before him, she then sat down and propped her chin in her hands as she studied him. “You should eat. It is important that you preserve your strength.”

Armand looked up from the process of carefully wrapping his feet with the cloth strips he’d torn earlier. He still felt too queasy to eat. In truth, he would have liked nothing more than to purge himself of what sat heavy in his stomach, souring the back of his tongue, but he knew she was right.

Armand finished the rest of his bindings with deft fingers, feeling Adair's eyes on him as he sat up straight and reached for the bread. She had brought a knife with the cheese, which was soft and easily spread over the dark bread, presumably made from goat’s milk. Taking a small bite of the bread, he found it to be soft, with a nice crust. It was surprisingly good, and he consumed the rest of it with small bites, enjoying it more than he had thought he would.

"When you go to the mines, seek out a man named Edan," She told him after a few moments of watching and biting her lip. "He will be kind to you. We're not all like Ilyas."

The sound of Adair's voice reminded him of the manners he had neglected so badly. He had not thanked her for her intervention yet. Had her eyes always been so green?

"I will," He told her, wondering what she must think of him. Of anyone in this keep, she had seen the worst of him, his weakest and most pathetic moments. She knew who he had been, and yet she offered him kindness.

"Will you be well?" Armand asked softly. The question was simple, but it bore so many layers. 

In response, she pulled her hair over her shoulder and began to braid it into a thick rope, seemingly caught off guard by his question.  _ Would she be well?  _ No one had asked that of her for years. She was certain that if she were to die tomorrow no one would even care and would merely dump her in the wilderness for the foreign beasts to feed on.

"Well enough." she answered after a few moments. Things were fine when Ilyas went off to the front to fight for she had gotten a bit of rest from his black presence but now that he was back and Armand would be leaving- Well, she'd just put up with it like she always had. Her fate was sealed and there was no point in trying to fight against it.

Her lips quirked into a half smile. "Your absence means that I at least might have the possibility of a warm bed at night," She said in a dry tone. Often had she been called from her bed in the dawn hours to attend to the Queen’s toy.

"I have no love for the cold. Where I come from, it is always a brisk, but never like this," She told him. "Sometimes the days in Autumn are balmy. Other times, when winter draws near, you can see your breath before your face. But here... Ilyas and the queen are both from the Winter Court. It is no wonder they have chosen this place as their seat of power.”

Armand listened with interest to her explanation of the courts. Somehow, it failed to surprise him that Alannys hailed from the Winter Court. She was certainly icy enough for it. Ilyas too, but he was cold in the way the cruel winter wind was, biting and merciless.

In the lull in conversation, he wrapped his fingers around the mug and took a sip of the goat's milk. Glancing at the nearby window, which had lightened in colour since he last looked, swiftly drained the rest of it. The bread he broke in half and stowed away in the pocket someone had thoughtfully sewed into the waist of his pants. Had he a needle and thread, he would have done the same with the rest of his clothing.

They sat in comfortable silence together for a long minute. Any onlooker would have seen two figures, heads bowed slightly towards each other as the man pulled on the pair of boots stowed beneath his stool and the auburn-haired girl twined her fingers and watched him.

"Tell me more of your home." Armand said, breaking the silence after another glance towards the window. He knew he would have to leave soon, or risk a beating, but he wanted to delay as long as he could before he was to face Ilyas's cruel presence again.

Adair looked far away for a moment, features softening into something almost beautiful. “It is beautiful.”

"The land is in a perpetual state of autumn. The trees are vivid shades of red, orange, and yellow. Rolling hills with villages tucked into their shadows. You would not understand unless you have laid your eyes upon it, but you would feel its peace and beauty."

Seeing his glance towards the window, Adair shook her head as if chastising herself and got up to her feet again, retrieving a basket of something that had been set by the fire. She set four small buns in front of him.

"Hide these in your pockets," She told him. "If you find him, give one to Edan." She knew not whether he was alive any longer.

"The mines are a dangerous place. They are where the Queen keeps traitors. You will receive no love there from the overseers, so you must make friends where you can." Nearby, several women had brought several chickens inside. They made a great commotion, squawking and rustling frantic feathers as the women set about twisting their necks.

Armand slid three of the small buns into the inner pocket of his tunic and the other one into the rough pocket sewn into the hem of his pants. 

The redhead naturally tended to sit with his hands either in his lap or on his knees, almost like one might kneel in prayer at the foot of a cathedral statue, and it was like this that he was sat as he listened to her, with his hands clasped demurely in his lap. He looked so very mundane, like this. Just a person, clothed and natural-looking. If it were not for the red, ridged pattern of the raven brand peeking through his collar, he could have been anyone.

His eyes lingered on Adair as he stood. Auburn hair and bright green eyes, like the colours of the august places she hailed from. 

“Thank you,” He told her, and inclining his head, made his way from the kitchens. He might have been imagining it, but he thought he had heard a soft voice behind him. 

“Be safe, Armand.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter here. I'm considering splitting this work up into several parts as we forge onward, given its length. Feedback is ALWAYS appreciated!


	17. Edan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the mines, Armand learns the truth about Adair.

Ilyas was waiting outside, clad warmly in a rich navy colored wool doublet trimmed in grey rabbit fur. As always, he greeted Armand with that vaguely self-satisfied smile.

"Let's go then. I'll be sad to be rid of you. I haven’t become as acquainted with that mouth of yours as I would have liked." Ilyas said, his sneer evident in his voice. A stable lad approached with the horse Ilyas would ride up to the mines. Ilyas secured one side of the rope around Armand's neck and the other to his saddle. Without further ado, they were off.

The trek led them to a road that wound behind the castle, slowly ascending up towards the black mountains that always loomed in the background. Occasionally they would pass by carts drawn by draft horses, their wagons laden with a few types of ore. The walk ordinarily would have taken an hour, but for fun Ilyas would spur his horse, a great black beast of a charger, into a canter to see if Armand could keep up the pace.

It was about an hour’s ride to the mines. Ilyas enjoyed forcing Armand to run alongside the charger, so by the time they arrived, the man was panting, his neck a bit red where the rope had rubbed at him.

As they rounded the bend, the entrance to the mines could have been ghastly mouth opening on the side of the mountain. It was guarded by several faerie men and a foreman was there, skinny and particularly ugly for a faerie. Perhaps it was the shrewd, narrow face that made him unpleasant.

"Captain" the foreman greeted with a curt nod. Brown eyes like fresh tilled earth settled on Armand and a smile cracked the man's thin lips. His teeth were more or less on the rotten side. "Is this the one?"

"Indeed." Ilyas said. Untying the rope, he shoved the human forward a few paces, pleased by the lack of reaction. Learning one’s place was an important step in moving forward-- or backward -in the world. "He's a wily one. The Queen's hoping some hard labor will put him in his place. He's strong for a human. I'm sure he'll perform- isn’t that right, cunt?"

The foreman only nodded, seeming just as off guard by Ilyas’s presence as Armand was. "Her Highness won't be disappointed. He'll not see the light of day for some time."

Reaching out, he grabbed Armand by the shoulder and pushed him forwards and into the mouth of the mine. It was dark and chilly inside, lanterns placed on the walls every so often to provide a weak semblance of light. Rather than lighting the place up, they only seemed to make the mine seem even gloomier. The two stopped briefly by a shack, where Armand was given a pickaxe. There was a lift further down the tunnel. This was where the foreman led Armand, barking an order at the pair of faerie men who were operating the device. And so they descended into the mine. 

Despite the distinct absence of chains and the relieving lack of any royal presences, Armand immediately felt cloistered. At the very least, there was minimal supervision down in the depths. After all, what overseer in their right mind would want to slave away down in the dark like the wretched prisoners they lorded their power over? Standing on the lift, he lifted his head and watched the last vestiges of sunlight fade away as they descended. It would be the last he would see for a while.

Truth be told, to see so many faeries, Alannys's own people, trapped here in the mines was a surprise, one that immediately had him considering how many others opposed her rule. How many had been imprisoned? How many still hid in plain sight?

"You'll have a quota to fill every day. Five wheelbarrows full of good ore. Failure will result in no rations for the day. Three failures equals a whipping." The foreman went on, detailing Armand's other tasks and rules he would follow. No fights, no sleeping while on shift, no theft, and no getting on the lift. He was a gruff man, but he had none of the malice that Ilyas possessed. A working man, it seemed.

When the lift finally stopped, the foreman shoved Armand forwards down a tunnel. Pick marks were clearly visible in the dark granite walls of the tunnel. The workers were all burly for faeries, their hair was long and unkempt, their clothing beyond repair. Most likely, the smaller men had died off along with the humans, starved out by the exhausting work.

"This is what we call the Traitor's Cave. Bastards who never will be able to see the sun again spend their days toiling for the queen to repent for their treasonous ways. I'm sure you'll fit right in."

The man's beady eyes scanned the tunnel before he barked a name. "Edan!"

They were not left waiting for long. A man soon appeared from the gloom. Edan was gigantic for a faerie, with tangled hair that might have been gold if not for the dust, grime, and soot that darkened his hair and features, a face that, if one could look past the lines drawn by hardship, was handsome and well-formed, with the angular beauty characterized by his kind. Despite the rags he wore and the clear weariness, his amber eyes were sharp with intelligence. 

Armand felt a sort of grim, petty amusement at the dark beard covering the man's face. So it appeared that the fae were capable of facial hair after all-- not just the barbarism of humans

"Sir?" His voice had a deep and pleasant timbre to it.

"Look after this whelp. He's here for the next three months. I expect you to whip him into shape."

Edan nodded once, his gaze settling on Armand as the foreman left for the comforts of above-ground. The two appraised one another, but Edan was the first one to speak.

"Swordsman?" The faerie asked gruffly, raising a brow.

“Used to be.” Armand replied, slowly straightening as he heard the sound of the lift creaking into motion again. There was a darkness to his eyes that undoubtedly had something to do with the red ring around his throat.

Likewise, Edan held himself with the telltale stance of someone familiar with the blade. Armand had no doubts that he would have been a formidable opponent on the field. Would still be. He had not desire to cross swords with this one on the field.

Edan only grunted, but his eyes were curious. Human workers were rarities down here. This man was the first he had seen since the mines had been taken over by Alannys. Faeries proved to be much better workers than the mine’s prior owners due to their strength and longevity. Likewise, Alannys had no qualms about working them to death.

"I thought as much. Though I'm curious to see what a human swordsman must have done to gain the ire of that cold-hearted bitch,” Said the faerie, raising a brow at Armand..

So this was the man Adair was looking for. 

“Your name is Edan?” His only confirmation was a grunt as the other crossed his arms. Taking a slow step forward, Armand slid a hand into the inner pocket of his tunic, producing one of the dense rolls given to him that morning.

"I was told to seek you out by a servant girl in the keep. Her name is Adair.”

Then the human procured a small pastry hidden in his clothing and handed it over. Edan's gaze grew sharp as Armand spoke. He took the bun without comment, turning it over in his hands. This was an Autumn specialty, one of the pastries that were available year round. 

She lived.

"Is she well?" The faerie asked, doing his best to not bark it out as a command. He had to know. He had to squeeze every last drop of information out of the lad. "Has that fucker been hurting her?"

Taking the other two hidden in his tunic, Armand handed them over. They were not much, barely more than a mouthful, but for whatever reason, they meant more to the ragged man before him than it might seem at first glance. Armand's curiosity only grew. Who _was_ this man? And who was Adair? 

The tone of voice that Edan used for his question, however, took him somewhat aback, though he did not show it on his face aside from the grim look that stole over his features. ' _That fucker'_. There was only one person alive who the other could possibly be referring to. Ilyas.

"No more than usual, as I can tell." Ilyas had been rather too busy tormenting Armand to bother with a servant, but now that he was out of his grasp… "I fear that my absence may paint a target upon her back." He said heavily, feeling very much as if the words were stones, weighing him down with each damning syllable. Armand said no more than was warranted, though by the incensed look in the other's eye, he knew, in part, at least, to what Armand was referring.

The faerie almost crushed the buns in his hands but he restrained himself, forcing himself to take another bite of the first one and tuck the others into his pockets.

“You need not explain, lad,” Edan told him. He tapped the side of his nose, eyes somber. “I could smell him on you the moment you arrived.

Armand winced. He still bore the scent. Of course. If Edan could smell Ilyas on him (The mere fact that he was familiar enough with Ilyas’s scent to know it on another spoke volumes.), then other faeries undoubtedly could too. Including the foreman. Including Adair. Could he not rid himself of Ilyas’s presence, even down in the dark?

"First thing I'll do when I get out of here is gut that fucker, string him up by his intestines, and let the birds do the rest." Edan continued, ignoring the human’s internal struggle. Though really no act of death could be creative or painful enough to warrant a satisfactory revenge. But it was something Edan liked to fantasize about to keep his mind sharp and to give him something to work towards escape.

Edan’s dark description of what he would do, however, took Armand by surprise, as well as the chuckle that rolled out quite accidentally. Hung by his intestines, was all well and good, but Armand planned to feed the bastard his tongue and watch him choke to death on his own blood.

Down they continued. About twelve other men resided in the mine shaft. They all paused to look at Armand as he walked past, but didn't say anything, appearing to base their reactions off of Edan’s. Picks leaned up against the wall, illuminated by the dim glow of lantern light. Reaching the end of the tunnel, Edan gestured to the side where an ore vein sat exposed, glittering in the low light.

"You get that one there," Edan told Armand. "Just extract anything that doesn't look like rock. When your pile gets big enough, we'll add it to the wheelbarrow."

Edan hefted up his own tool and went back to work for a few minutes, apparently picking up where he last left off. He appeared an adept at excavating. Muscle flexed in his broad shoulders and back as he brought the pick down repeatedly, carving out glittering ore chunk by chunk. 

Armand, following his example, set to work. Chunks of ore soon began to pile up, though rather less than Edan’s impressive pile. He was soon sweating with the exertion, the months chained and unable to move being rather counterproductive to stamina, but there was honest enjoyment in the freedom of being able to sweat of his own accord, a catharsis in the strike of the pick’s head against the ore vein.

After a while, Edan paused, glancing over at Armand as he spoke. "So the bitch queen hates you enough to send you here but not enough to make it permanent. Care to elaborate on that?"

Armand, unsure of how to reply, buried his pick in a small crevice and put a foot on the wall as he tugged at the stubborn thing. “It’s a long story.” He said eventually.

"I've got time" Edan answered, noting Armand's hesitance. A substantial pile had grown at his feet and he used a shovel to transport the ore into an awaiting wagon a few feet behind him. Each wagon was logged per miner. Every night the wagon loads would be counted and matched to the logs to make sure each man was making their quota.

"We've plenty of long days down here. Long stories are the best, you'll find." Edan said and wiped the sweat from his brow. Sweat and grime coated him from head to toe. He was ashamed to think about the last time he had actually bathed. Most of the men were rank smelling enough that they all got used to it after a while. He supposed the human would too.

"Tell you what," Edan grunted as he swung again. More rock crumbled at his feet, and he tossed another lump of ore into the pile. "I'll make you a trade. Story for story. They don't call this the Traitor's Cave for nothing."

It was an unexpected-- and quite forgotten --nicety to simply be asked, instead of threatened. Even be asked at all, much less met with understanding, coaxing when he wished to keep his silence. To be treated like a person again from such an unexpected source, nonetheless, was certainly surprising. He would not forget it.

Armand took another swing at the vein between thoughts. His pile was starting to grow with the steady chipping-away at the softer metal of the vein, but it jarred his arm whenever he hit stone, the lighting dim enough that it was difficult to distinguish the difference between the stone mixed with the softer ore. Armand, using the limited vision he had, focused on aiming for weaknesses in the vein, reaching in to tug a stubborn chunk out.

It clinked against the other ore lying in pieces at his feet. Five wagons a day seemed a harsh quota. To be frank, he did not know how he would meet it. For a fae, with their superior stamina, it was still back-breaking. As it was for him, it seemed as though he would be missing several meals each week.

"Alright." He said, after a few more swings. The minutes ticked by, each announced by the 'tink' of metal against stone, always from somewhere in the mines. It was obvious from his silence that he was waiting for Edan to go first. A wary one, he was.

Edan chuckled at Armand's silence. So the lad was expecting him to talk first. He would have opposed it, but it had been a long time since there was anyone new down in their portion of the mine. It felt good to talk, after so long in the dark.

“I will preface this by saying that Alannys’s rise to power occurred quite recently. Perhaps for the last seventy or so years. In our homeland the region is split up into four courts. Traditionally, each should be ruled independently."

Edan gestured a grimy hand towards the other men barely visible from their portion of the tunnel. "All of us you see here hail from the Autumn Court. To this day none of us are sure about how Alannys got her power, but when she did, she swept through the courts, conquering, and dominating the entirety of Albion as Winter’s empire."

Edan paused in his work to eat another one of those heavenly buns but he passed one on to Armand. He looked like he could use a fuller stomach.

"The Summer Court was all for it. The Lord there liked fucking Alannys, I'm sure, whore that she is. Spring just accepted the changes as they were, but Autumn... 

“You may know her as a servant, but Adair’s father was Lord of the Autumn Court. And he opposed Alannys. Vehemently.”

"Lord Autumn and his allies had planned a coup to overthrow her, coinciding with her visit to Autumn for peace talks. I was Captain of the Guard, at that time. Long story short, we were betrayed by one of our noble allies in the Spring Court. Everything went to fucking shit after that. Alannys’s fprces raided the estate and arrested Adair's family. I was arrested, they were arrested- everyone named was arrested."

The look in Edan's expression grew darker as he approached the next part of his story. His hands tightened on the handle of his tool so hard that his knuckles turned white. "After that... Fuck. It still fills me with wrath. What they did to that family was unspeakable. Alannys wanted an example made and she certainly did her job. I won't go into detail but I'll assure you that the executions were more horrific than anything you could imagine. Alannys drew it out. They have a saying in Winter: Another day, another head. Father, mother, brother after brother. And Adair- she was made to watch the whole thing."

"I'm almost a century old. Alannys is probably double that. That bastard Ilyas is probably the same. But Adair was a _child,_ boy. Do you know what it's like to hear the screams of a young girl like that just a few cells away?"

Edan spat on the floor, open disgust on his face. He was disgusted that he couldn't protect the family that he had sworn to serve. 

Armand vividly remembered the sizzle of iron against Alannys's skin. The way she had shrieked and twisted, bucking and writhing until he could hold her no more. And that had only been the fine chain of a necklace. He could hardly imagine the trauma that the thick bands of shackles would wreak upon delicate wrists and ankles. And Adair, who was 7 years his junior. To have endured so much at such a tender age made him sick at heart. No wonder she acted like she was so much older than she was.He found himself filled with such rage, now, for Ilyas's comments about Adair. For a race which lived so long, she was practically still a child, Ilyas decades older than her. For someone to take advantage of someone so young in such a way was abhorrent in every sense of the word.

The horror must have shown upon his face, for the other man forced a smile onto his features. For a moment, he had looked his age, the lines around his eyes and mouth of all the horror he had seen and experienced suddenly thrown into sharp relief. Nearly a hundred. Armand could not fathom it. The haunted smile wiped it away, however, leaving only a man behind, streaked with grime and clad in rags.

Sweat cut marks through the grime on his face, soaking his tattered clothing. He could feel himself getting riled up, but a few moments brought him back down to peace. He was able to give Armand a pained smile. "It's a story better told over beer. That's for damn sure. At this point, I’m sure that vengeance is the only thing that’s keeping this old body of mine still going. So there's my tale of woe.”

“Now, lad, it’s your turn.”

Armand struck at the wall with a particular vehemence, his blunted nails scraping against the chunk of ore as he pried it out of its vein and tossed it to the ground with a hollow _clunk_. His own tale felt rather hollow after the tragedy that had just been recounted, a tragedy that had spanned twice the time he might live.

"I was a soldier for most of my life before Albion started creeping up on my country's borders." The words started out slow. He swung again at the vein. _Tink_. Soldiering was a job for the jacks of all trades, the young and idealistic, the aimless, seeking direction; the ones who had no particular skill or money to speak of. Armand had been the youngest of his family, neither clever with his fingers like Marie, nor sly like Celia. It had turned out that he had one natural skill. Sheer stubbornness. He said as much, causing the corner of Edan's mouth to quirk up.

"I was knighted younger than most." Four and twenty, to be precise. "When faerie soldiers started streaming in from the North, there was shit all we could do against them. The King all but gave her Stonehaven." He said bitterly. "But they just kept coming. Men kept dying. Entire villages were wiped out. Women raped, men tortured- children put to the sword. Fields and livestock set aflame." He recalled the horrific sight of a stable of burning horses they'd encountered as they marched North. Their manes had been set aflame, spreading the scent of burning hair as they charged past.

"My promotion had more to do with that we were running out of men than any of the higher-up's faith in me. We marched North with about three hundred men. As fate would have it, we ran straight into an ambush. Only about a hundred, including myself, escaped with their lives. My commander was killed, and suddenly I was in charge." 

_Tink_.

"We were desperate and angry. When we encountered a small encampment, we attacked with no mercy. Fire, first. Then we met them head-on. And somehow, we won that fight. Some of the men had their superstitions about iron. I was a fool not to listen to them, but I realize now that many of our battles were won with pitchforks and hammers after we started to gain traction in the North, freeing those who had been taken as slaves as we went. There, for a while, we were making progress. Morale was high."

"We received a letter stamped with the King's seal one night. We were being ordered back to the capital. The fae disappeared _overnight,_ and though I _knew_ something was afoot, I did not question." Armand's mouth grew tight, and he stopped swinging at the wall for a moment. "Alannys had offered a peace treaty and my King accepted. But she wanted an example made. So along with the rest of the gold, slaves, and resources she provisioned, I was taken North, as well."

He stopped, either unwilling or unable to dutifully describe the things he had been subjected to. Likewise, his shattered honor was another matter he did not know how to put into words. The weakness which had made his resistance all for nought. "The reason for my presence in the mines is that I thought to kill the source of my torment." He said mildly, "I failed, and was made to swear an oath to her instead. Ilyas holds my chains, now. I can only imagine that the only reason I still draw breath is because I have not served my purpose yet."

"It's too bad that you didn't succeed in your task, boy. You would have done both races a good favor,” Said Edan. "I don’t remember catching your name, Ser Knight" 

"It’s just Armand." The human answered gruffly.

Edan snorted, amused. “Have you a wife or children, just Armand?”

That question caught him quite by surprise. He ought to. But he didn't. Given his circumstances, it was more a blessing than a regret. Had Alannys learned of those hypothetical family's existence, they would have been used against him as surely as she had everything else. He was just grateful that the existence of his sisters remained unasked-about and presumably unknown.

Stopping for a moment, Armand took the remaining bun from his pocket, and breaking it into half, offered Edan one of the pieces as he bit into the other, savoring the flavor of it before he returned to his work. "It never seemed like there was the time." He said, after a moment. There never seemed a woman.

The faerie’s amber eyes seemed to gleam as he looked back at the human. "I may not look it now but I was quite the lady catcher back in my day. I'll get back to it in no time, I'm sure."

They continued to work, talking about small things. Edan wanted to know more about this man. There was a gravity to him that told Edan he had known much suffering but he did not complain as he labored. Armand would find the other men of the shaft pitching in with their excess ore to help each other reach their quota for the day. By the end of the day the chart had been filled out and wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow were sent up to be smelted somewhere else.

"Best start making a stockpile for yourself if you can," Edan said as he set the pickaxe aside, rubbing his rough calloused hands on his pants. He showed Armand the pocket containing small bits of ore. “Even raw, silver’s valuable.”

He clapped Armand on the back again and the sweat soaked men both walked down the shaft, turning left down a roughly hewn tunnel. Carved out spaces in the walls meant for a body to lay in lined the small passage. There weren't any blankets or pillows, just bare rock, but it was better than sleeping on the floor. "Comfy, right? I'll let you share my slot until you can chip one out for yourself.”

Further down another short tunnel that branched off the one with the 'beds' in it was a tiny space with a bucket. The odor coming from it was rather self explanatory. "if you wanna piss or shit here's the place to do it. You can dump it down the shaft where the lift goes up and down, just make sure it's up before you do it. It might be fun to dump a bucket of shit on the Overseer but he'll make your life hell for it."

Turning back he led Armand out of the living quarters and to the main part of the shaft. A few other men were sitting down, all tired from a hard day’s work. Some introduced themselves to Armand, the most friendly in their current state being the two called Lorcan and Gavriel, who inquired politely of Armand. Both had been guardsmen arrested and sent to work in the mines indefinitely, but seemed rather spirited given the grim situation.

The lift creaked as it made its way slowly down the shaft. It would stop occasionally as if making deliveries on every level above them. "That's dinner coming," Gavriel said, squinting up at the mine shaft. His eyes were pale and bright like crystals, contrasting starkly against his olive complexion and dark hair. "Looks like shit and tastes like shit, but it's better than nothing."

Armand opted for leaning up against the wall next to the two. They traded small conversation while they waited. Armand let the two faeries do most of the talking, speaking only when spoken to or occasionally when there was an appropriate lull in conversation. It was obvious he was still in the process of adjusting, but he had yet to lose his wariness, though he did not complain of the situation.

His eyes moved from face to face in the dim gloom, lit only by the lanterns studding the walls. There were more men here than he had first anticipated. Edan seemed to be everywhere, moving from man to man, trading friendly touches and conversation. It was clear that he was in charge here. Armand could immediately understand why. He was charismatic, caring, and knew how to make light of a dark situation- simply just one of those leaders to whom men were drawn naturally.

The lift, creaking and groaning as it made its way down, finally came to a halt at the lowest level. There were two bored-looking guards leaning against its sides. They hardly paid any attention to the miners aside from an idle sweep of the eyes, though they wore swords at their belts. Accompanying them was a large man wearing commoner clothes. He had his arms crossed, and his foot was 'tap-tapping' impatiently. In front of him was a large pot, more cauldron than pot, which had clearly been full of gruel when the lift started the trip down, but now only about a lukewarm third remained.

"Form a line already, you filthy curs." Snapped the cook, dipping the ladle into the pot as the first of the miners stepped up to receive their daily ration of gruel. Armand, stepping into line behind a friendly bickering Gavriel and Lorcan, realized that every one of the men were clutching small wooden bowls, which the cook then filled with gruel and the next man stepped up. Rinse. Repeat. He didn't have a bowl, having not been given one during his arrival this morning.

As he stepped up in line, only Lorcan remaining between himself and the food, one of the guards, catching sight of telltale red hair, straightened up from where he'd been leaning against the side of the lift, made direct eye contact, and began to approach, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Human! Managed to fill your quota after all? I don't doubt that the rest of these traitorous dogs did most of the work for you, but fortunately for you, the Overseer only cares about the numbers."

Armand noticed now that the guard was holding a small wooden bowl, identical to those of the men around him. To his surprise, the faerie took a final step closer and shoved the bowl none too gently against his chest. Armand's hands came up to hold it on instinct. "Sleep well, traitor. The Knight Captain sends his regards."

As the faerie turned on his heel to stroll away, Armand turned the bowl over in his hands, half expecting to see a scorpion or some poisonous snake nestled inside of it, but it was empty. Just a bowl. Gritting his teeth for the sudden loss of appetite, he stepped back into line, received his bowl of pottage, and walked back over to the wall where Lorcas and Gavriel waited. Not waiting for them to comment, he withdrew the two halves of dark bread from his pockets and handed one to each. "Take these." He muttered. "They'll be too stale to eat soon, and I'd rather not waste them."

Walking a short ways away, Armand settled against the wall and mechanically ate his food. It was bland. Had the consistency of runny shit, too. But it was better than nothing, and his belly stopped groaning after half of it settled. At the very least, it was filling.

" ‘The Knight Captain sends his regards’- oooh!" Lorcan mimicked, adopting a high-pitched voice. In his normal voice, as he nudged Armand’s shoulder. "How about we send him ours instead with a pickaxe to the head?"

"Shove it up his ass instead. Give him the fucking he deserves," Gavriel commented as he glowered at his bowl, stirring it about as if he was trying to somehow improve the runny consistency but to no avail.

Edan turned his attention back to Armand who had sat a little ways away, looking rather grim. "Let's talk about something more pleasant, eh? Let's hear your ideal woman, human. You like them big? Small?"

"I like girls with blue eyes" Lorcan interjected with a grin. "but looking at the Queen's makes my cock shrivel up.”

"You'd fuck her if you had the chance" Gavriel said, with a waggle of his eyebrows. Lorcan shoved him.

Armand smiled as the two descended into petty bickering again, mutually enjoyed by both parties and those around them for the most part. “I couldn’t care less.” He finally said gently with thinly-veiled exasperation in his voice, after being poked and prodded for an answer, but the hint of a smile lingered on as the two continued to badger him.

“Come on. If you had a woman _right now_ , what would she look like??”

Armand shook his head, placing the bowl off to the side as he scratched his itching jaw. Dark reddish stubble, more auburn than the lighter red of the hair on his head, was finally starting to make its presence known on the lower half of his face again. Doubtless, it would be a full beard within three months, tending towards the scraggly if there was nothing here he could trim it with.

He doubted any human woman would tolerate the enemy’s brand scarring his skin, proclaiming him a traitor just as much as the vow he had sworn. Faerie women were no better, beautiful as they were. They were just as like to hate him as his own kind would.

“Curly hair.” Armand said, finally, just to shut them up. “Slender.” Finding himself seriously considering the question, now, he sighed and gave up. “Green eyes, maybe. I don’t know.” He stopped and raised an eyebrow. “That enough for you?”

"Sounds like you have someone in particular in mind rather than just an ideal type, eh?" Edan asked with a throaty laugh and reached over to kick Armand's leg with his foot.

"I courted a lass with curly hair once. Fire kissed like yours, human. She was a wild one..." Lorcan occupied a good portion of the hour talking about the lady he had been smitten with and scorned more times than one could count on their hands. Of course his jabbering on was marked by occasional scoffs or laughs coming from Gavriel or Edan, who would occasionally call Lorcan out as a barefaced liar. Lorcan, of course, would only grin and say ‘how would you know?’. 

However, the long hours of labor took its toll on the men. Edan was the first to fall asleep, though he had been kind enough to offer some space for Armand. The others returned to their nooks in the wall not long after. It was hard to sleep unless one was dead tired for the chill and damp air started to intensify in it's presence after all the movement and sweating ceased. Rapidly, the space was filled with the sounds of sleep. Eventually, Armand drifted off too. He dreamed of sitting by a fire, a half-finished carving in his hands. There was the sound of laughter, and by his side, someone was sitting there. Their face was a blur, but he thought he caught the glint of the firelight off of their hair. Red, like autumn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's quarantine and I am impatient. Sorry for the sporadic length between updates.


	18. The Return

Those three months in the mines were as hard as anything, but they came to pass far too quickly for his liking. Every day had the chance for honest work. Work wrung the body out like a sponge, of impurities, physical and mental, and slowly but surely, Armand found himself growing stronger again. It was not the same strength that he had come to the North with, but he was healthy again, thinner than he had ever been, but strong with hard-won muscle. By the end of it, he was collecting all five of the wagons required by the quota. More than the work, even, he came to appreciate the companionship. For all the darkness of their situation, camaraderie was easy enough to come by there, for to work and sweat and hunger alongside them made it easy enough to feel a sort of kinship. It was a blessing to be treated like a person, to be able to laugh and curse and trust another to have his back again.

Armand was never able to lose track of the days. The first month passed. Then the second. The eve of the third dawned and passed, days marked by the clanging of a bell every 'morning'. During his nights, he had ample time to think. Of Adair, she was in his thoughts often. Edan always referred to her as 'his lady', though to associate the quiet girl he knew with not just a noblewoman but a princess _,_ nonetheless, was hard to reconcile.

At the end of the third month, Armand appeared just as any of the other men. His clothing had been practically worn to rags, his beard overgrown, and he stank just as much as the others, grimy with sweat and dead skin. There were no lice, at least. Down here in the dark, they would have been next to unbearable. The morning that marked his 90th day in the mines, the lift came down with two nervous soldiers and the Overseer, who appeared nothing short of spectacularly grumpy today.

"You there, boy!" He barked, gesturing impatiently as he mopped his sweating forhead with a filthy kerchief he had apparently procured from his pocket. "Get your ass over here. If you keep the Knight Captain waiting, I'll have your fucking hide."

Armand, knowing it to be an empty threat- Ilyas was the one who would have his hide, likely after he had the Overseer whipped bloody -turned back towards Edan, who stood in the shadow of one of the tunnels, amber eyes turned towards the light of the mine shaft. It was truly wrong that such a man was never again to see the light of day, and Armand felt a sharp surge of emotion at the indignity of it, that all of these men were fated to die down here in the dark. To just stand by and allow it to happen struck a deep chord of disquiet within him at the unfairness of it. He hesitated.

" _Boy_!"

"Go on then," Edan told Armand as the overseer yelled in the background. "You'll be just fine up there. And when you feel good, come find us. You'll find a way."

"Find that curly haired lass of yours and give her a good poke with your prick!" Lorcan's bawdy voice called from down the tunnel.

Edan chuckled a bit at that, but he seemed a bit sad to see Armand leave. He didn't belong down there, none of them did. But over the three months he had spent getting to know Armand, he came to find that man was as steady and unmoving as a mountain. Even Ilyas would have a hell of a time breaking him.

With a curt nod and a handshake, he pushed Armand over to the lift and saw him off. "Look after her for me.”

The overseer continued to berate Armand the whole time they traveled up the shaft and was more than happy to shove Armand over to Ilyas once they reached the ground floor and headed outside. It was cloudy outside, the winter having given way to spring. There was still some snow on the ground but it was not as bitterly cold as it had been three months prior.

Waiting next to his horse, the same enormous black charger, was Ilyas. He was wearing grey, today, and though the cut he had received during their duel had healed to a thin white scar on his face had marred his face, it gave him a rakish appearance. His eyes shone with predatory interest as the overseer hauled Armand out. The worm was filthy from head to toe, covered and dust and grime. Ilyas wrinkled his nose at the scent wafting off Armand. 

"Mm, looking like quite the wildman, cunt. From the smell of it, I'd say you spent the last three months wallowing in shit," Ilyas said. Walking forwards, he examined Armand's sinewy frame, appreciating what the mines had done for his figure. Sure, he looked a bit thin, but it had done well to lean him up again, accentuating his narrow waist and taut belly. Ilyas felt a stir of arousal within his belly, but restrained himself. He’d have plenty of opportunity to have the human to himself- right after he’d had a bath. Maybe two baths.

Armand was glad for the overcast sky above him, for as it was, he was nearly blinded when he was shoved out, eyes growing teary as the sun seemed to burn them. Ilyas was a blurry form clad in steely blue and grey, even as he stepped away from his horse to tie the loathsome rope about Armand's neck. And yet, at the same time, as the pain of his stinging eyes was made tolerable by the sheer relief that it was to see the sun again, to feel it on his skin. There was an instinctive part of him, he realized, that needed it. Craved it. His thoughts immediately went to Edan and the rest of the men who were still trapped down there. Surely they felt that too. And yet, they remained imprisoned, denied the healing touch of sunlight until they expired in dark damp of the mines.

 _You'll find a way_ , Edan had said. Spoken like he truly believed it. Armand wanted badly to believe it too. However, if he could only fulfill one of Edan's wishes, he would look after Adair as best he could. He owed a great debt, not just to Edan but also to Adair herself. Knowing how far she had fallen, it would have been easy to lash out, to be as cruel as those who had taken everything from her, and yet she had chosen kindness. His respect for her had only deepened in his absence.

He stumbled several times at the beginning the long ride back, but his eyes finally began to adjust after about twenty or so minutes of stumbling with his eyes half-closed down the mountain pass, and he was soon able to see the fog that blanketed the pine-covered foothills as well as smell it. His stamina was better this time, and he was not quite so pathetic as he had been the day after his trial. They reached Stonehaven by mid-afternoon. Armand ignored the predictable staring. Those of the fae did not sting as much as the eyes of the humans at the edges of the city, to whom he must have appeared a familiar sight

***

People stared as Ilyas paraded Armand through the muddy streets. The warming temperatures meant for mud and filth everywhere, often ankle deep. The courtyard of the castle looked no better as Ilyas dragged Armand inside and dismounted his horse in the least muddy of locations.

Ilyas removed the rope, his eyes hungry as they roved the man’s figure once more. He suspected Armand to have an even tighter ass than before and couldn't wait to get his hands on him. "Get yourself clean. If you need help from the kitchen women then ask, but I want you spotless.”

He paused, saying after a moment of consideration, “Keep the beard. Alannys may like you looking like a pretty red haired whore, but I want you to remember who you were every time you look in the mirror.”

As was his custom, Armand said nothing to the demeaning words and snide comments from Ilyas, and when told to go, instead of making a stand, curtly went about his way. He was well aware of his own stink. It had been as unavoidable as the lack of sunlight down in the mines, and eventually, he had grown used to it, his nose unable to perceive it after a while. Likewise, he could guess what Ilyas intended to make of the afternoon, and though it gave him no joy, he was aware there was no escaping it short of killing the bastard himself.

The kitchens were already bustling with activity when he entered, muddy, stinking, and scraggly. The first few servants turned him away, making faces as they spoke something that sounded distinctly mocking in their native tongue, and after several repetitions of this, Armand, slightly exasperated, hungry, and tired, turned about with the intentions of finding a bucket and a well to do it himself. But upon turning around, he bumped straight into the familiar face he'd been looking for.

Suddenly, for some horrible and inexplicable reason, Armand could think of nothing else but Lorcan’s parting comment. _Find that curly haired lass of yours and give her a good poke with your prick_! A bright flush stole over his cheeks, and he suddenly had even less to say than usual.

Adair hated that she actually counted down the days before she could see her friend again. At least she regarded him as such. Whether he did was unknown to her. She missed being able to talk to someone, even if it was just her usual nervous rambling. The day Armand was scheduled to come back she was left undisturbed by Ilyas, meaning she could watch the courtyard as she hefted in crate after crate of vegetables brought in by a wagon.

Somehow she must have missed his arrival as she struggled with a heavy crate of potatoes but when she walked into the storeroom there he was, bumping right into her and her crate. She nearly dropped it as she gaped at Armand in surprise. 

"You're back!" She exclaimed with far more excitement than she should have let on. Her face colored and she coughed, scooting past him to set her crate down in the corner. Her muscles burned from the back and forth action all day and her body ached for several different reasons- none worth mentioning.

Brushing off her hands and smoothing her runway curls from her face, she turned back to look at Armand. Though he looked far thinner, slightly more the worse for wear, his three month stay seemed to have given him peace, at least. His beard aged him though she thought that if it was groomed then it would make him quite the handsome man. Then she cringed inwardly. Why was she thinking those kinds of thoughts?

"I... You look bad. I mean... Not good" Adair babbled out. She inwardly kicked herself, cursing her stupid mouth. She pointed awkwardly to the spot on the floor where she had last helped clean Armand up. "There! I mean- go there. I'll get you water and soap."

She grabbed a bucket waiting by the door and hustled out into the muck to draw some from the well. It would be cold but she doubted he would care at that point. She set the bucket down next to Armand once back inside and then retreated further into one of the other rooms for a few moments before coming back to produce a small cake of soap and a brush that looked as though it was more used to scrubbing potatoes than anything. But Armand was caked in filth and could certainly use the extra tool. Then there was a small jar of the strong herbal paste she set out as well, knowing full well the strict grooming requirements set for him.

"While you wash I'll see if I can get you a comb and some new clothes" Adair told Armand after finishing her delivery. His hair was a mess and she hoped that it wasn't bug infested. Ilyas hated filth and liked to humiliate those who were dirty. She remembered getting lice during her time spent imprisoned and had wept profusely when Ilyas hacked off all her hair to get rid of the infestation.

And then… she stood there.

Armand, rather red faced himself, though the new beard did well to conceal the lower half of his face, bit at the inside of his cheek as he waited patiently for Adair to do... something. Leave, hopefully. When she finally seemed to realize the source of his discomfort, she all but jumped, squeaked something, and ran off, all in quick succession. Somehow, this was worse than all the other times he'd been naked and filthy in that he was fully conscious and had some measure of his dignity back for however long it was allowed.

'You look good.' Had been hanging on the tip of his tongue, though it was less 'you look good' than: _It's good to see you._ He swallowed it.

Armand stripped out of his filthy clothing, discarding it in a pile a ways away from the drain, and when he was standing naked, with a grimace, poured a liberal measure of the icy water over himself. Grime ran off in streaks down his chest and legs, dripping from his fingers as he took the bar of soap and began to scrub. Thoroughly. It was a wonder that one person could be harboring so much dirt and filth, but it ran off of him in a soapy lather, his pale skin turning pink the harder he scrubbed.

As he became aware of the scent of the strong soap, so did he become aware of his own stench for the first time in months. Grimacing, Armand lathered himself again, part by part, and used the rest of the bucket to rinse away the remaining grime that came away from his skin.

He was able to take care of his torso, arms, legs, groin, and all the places in-between, but could not reach his back past his shoulders. It was an awkward place to begin with, but the extensive scarring had rendered his limited flexibility a moot point. As for the tangled mess of his hair and beard, both of which needed a judicious trimming, he left that alone, knowing it would need a knife and another bucket of water. Scowling at the jar Adair had set down with the soap, recognizing it as the stinging herbal paste he hated so much, Armand took a last look at his leg hair and brusquely set to applying it, jaw clenched tight.

"Here are your things" Adair said as she walked back into the room some time later. Dirty water was sloshed on the ground and Armand was certainly more pink than brown but his entire back was still coated in a layer of grime. Her eyes went from the brush and then to his back again and then traveled down lower for a brief moment. Her face felt hot.

"I have a pair of shears... For your hair and back... I mean beard! For your beard if you want to leave it. It looks nice. But it's a bit ragged." There she went again rambling. Even if a man had any desire to marry her she would ruin it before he could ever get started.

She dropped everything on the table with a clatter, a mess of clothes, leather shoes, a comb, and the shears. Something to make Armand a person once again. Then she picked up the vegetable brush. "Might I help?”

Trying to remain unselfconscious as he made his way over to the table by the door- after all, Adair had seen him naked more times than he could count on his fingers -Armand, careful not to drip the grimy lather running onto the fresh clothing, picked up the shears and comb, which, from its off white colour, looked to be carved from bone.

Adair was stumbling over her words rather badly today, talking more than he'd ever heard her talk, but at least she _had_ words. The moment she'd entered the room, they all seemed to have fled from his head. "Yes." He said, on impulse, sidetracked when she blinked up at him with those enormous green eyes. Plough him, but now that he knew who she had been born, it was as if he had forgotten entirely how to act around her. "I mean, I would like that.”

They blinked at one another. Then Armand, fingers squeezing rather tight around the comb, turned back towards the drain and set rather too enthusiastically to the task of cutting the snarls from his hair, which was still very much in need of a good wash, cutting it back to its preferred length. He momentarily went stiff upon feeling a gentle pressure on his back, but as soon as Adair set to scrubbing and he to trimming the ragged ends of his beard back into submission, the tension eased dramatically.

Perhaps it had something more to do with that they did not have to look at one another's faces than the work, but the atmosphere calmed nonetheless. Water ran down the drain, carrying away filth and grime, dirt, dead skin, and strands of red hair.

Adair got to work scrubbing Armand down, glad to have something to occupy her hands. She frowned at the latticework of scars which turned pink underneath her brush. She wished she could have healed him properly, made him as flawless as the day he was born. Instead Ilyas made her leave him with _that._

She left briefly to get two more buckets of water since the other was empty, and then doused him liberally until he was pink and clean. He was thin, his spine knobby and his ribs raised, but she knew he was covered with hard sinewy muscle. The mines did him good in that regard.

As Armand finished cutting the snarls from his hair, Adair splashed him with some water and began to work the red strands up into a lather. "Were you able to meet with him?" Adair asked, breaking the silence. At least working was able to give her mind a break from being awkward and embarrassing. "Edan, I mean. Did you find him?"

She gently rinsed the suds from his filthy hair and rubbed her fingers through the strands repeatedly to get out any remaining soap. Now he was actually tolerable to be around though those clothes still reeked off in the corner. Thinking about the state Armand returned in after three months made her fearful about those who were trapped there for a lot longer.

Their hands met in his hair, Armand untangling a knot while Adair lathered the back. Her fingers were soapy and warm, and though they only touched for a moment, the barest brush of fingers, Armand was glad that he was facing away from her if only for the surprise that sharp stab of _longing_ that shot through him.

Edan. “Yes.” Armand found himself saying for the second time. “He lives.” He struggled to arrange his thoughts into coherence. “It is a joyless existence, but they have one another.”

“He asked after you. It is clear he cares much for you.” Edan. Armand wondered how to tell her more without bringing up too much of her past. “He is a good man. Anyone would count themselves lucky to have his loyalty.” He eventually settled upon. It was the truth. A lesser man might have given up long ago, but Edan remained unbroken, unbowed in a way that only made the hopelessness of his situation even more unfair.

“I wish now more than ever that I had been able to keep ahold of that chain for just a moment longer.” Armand murmured, his voice pitched low, but mixed with a sort of helpless anger and regret that utterly belied the soft tone of it. Not just for himself. For the miners trapped in the dark. For the slaughtered families who had opposed Alannys. For Adair, too.

Adair breathed out a soft sigh of relief. "He lives then. That is a relief." She reached over for the comb and started to pass it through his hair, snipping away to get the length even. She found herself swallowing hard, imagining that handsome lion of a man in a similar state to Armand’s.

"He's a very good person. Too good. It's... It's my fault he's in there. It tortures me to know that he's stuck and there's nothing I can do. He's like a brother to me, the only one left."

She fell silent, biting down on her lip. She wondered how much Edan had told Armand about his backstory, about hers. Did Armand know the true fate of her family? Was he disgusted by such things? He didn't seem so. She wasn't going to bring it up anyways. Things were painfully fresh already, no thanks to Ilyas.

"Perhaps you were unable to kill her for a reason. The fates could have seen it as not the right time for such a thing" Adair offered, noting the anger in Armand's voice. She stepped away as she finished her task. Now she just wished that Armand would clothe himself so she didn't have to look upon his naked body any longer than necessary. It felt different this time, different than any other time she had seen him naked and battered.

"Take pride in what you've done already. You permanently marked the queen, you got strong in the mines... Something good will come your way, Armand. You'll see." 

"We can only hope." Armand said. It was a kind response, considering the well of bitterness that he could no doubt have drawn from. Now that his hair and beard had been trimmed back into submission, the oil and grime washed down the drain with the rest of the filth that had coated him head to toe, he got to his feet again, rising as he went to the table to retrieve the clothing that Adair had so kindly picked out for him.

He pulled the pants up onto his hips, shrugging into the shirt without any ceremony. "None of this is your fault, Adair, least of all the misfortune of others." Fingers on the laces of the shirt, a faded cornflower blue that brought out the blue of his eyes rather well, Armand's gaze was firmly fixed upon Adair as he spoke, his tone gentle but firm. "We can help others, but we cannot shoulder their blame.”

"You are a good person, Adair. Better than most." A warm hand alit on her shoulder; a gentle touch. Armand withdrew before long, unwilling to risk her discomfort, but the warmth of the gesture lingered. "I am glad that I met you."

Going back to the table, he braced a hand on the edge for stability as he slid his feet into the low boots and shrugged into the leather-studded jerkin meant to go over top of the shirt. His throat felt bare without the charm he had worn for most of his life, probably smelted down long ago, but in a foolish way, he still missed it. His stomach, on the other hand, was empty and clearly unhappy about it. His stomach had since learned not to care about whether Armand himself wanted to eat or not, and despite his destination, Ilyas's bedchambers, it was no different today.

"I should be on my way soon." Ilyas was impatient at the best of times, and though he had specified no time in which Armand should be back, he had no doubts that Ilyas wouldn't mind using a whip on him for loitering. “Walk with me?”

"I'll walk with you,” Adair answered hoarsely, against her better judgement. If she was seen meandering about with the human people might think something was up but she was just so floored to have her friend back she couldn't help herself. Before they left, she took the remaining water in one of the buckets and sloshed down the area to wash away any hair or soap that remained, forcing it all down the drain. Then the comb, shears, and soap were all tucked away in her apron pocket.

"Let's go then," She told Armand and began walking. Her palms had grown sweaty and she thought back on his toned and naked form from just a few minutes earlier. She shook her head slightly to clear the unwanted images from her mind. It also felt a bit weird to be walking Armand to Ilyas, almost like bringing a lamb straight to a wolf. She didn't know what to say about that so she kept quiet.

"For your sake I really hope you don't get into trouble again" Adair said as they strolled down a hallway towards a staircase.

Armand snorted dryly, though there was little humor in it. They passed through the kitchens through the back entrance, sidetracking the majority of the activity by using the servant’s corridors and progressed towards the outer courtyard which would spit them out in the wing where Alannys and Ilyas resided.

Though they did not exchange casual conversation the closer they came, Armand was glad for her presence. It was not as bad when there was someone at his side, even with what waited for him within Ilyas’s chambers. They came to a winding staircase, the very same which led to Ilyas’s chambers.

“I will go alone from here on.” He said softly. He would not make her climb these stairs to accompany him to Ilyas’s doorstep. It would be foolish, not to mention needlessly cruel. “Thank you, Adair.”

Armand’s boots scraped against the stairs as he ascended, eventually disappearing from Adair’s sight when he rounded the corner, shoulders held high and stiff as he no doubt mentally prepared himself for what was to come. Arriving at Ilyas’s door, he hesitated before letting himself in. If Ilyas wanted him to knock, he would specify in no uncertain terms, but he suspected the faerie was already impatient enough. No use delaying the inevitable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing explicit in this chapter. Mostly Armand/Adair bonding. We’re coming close to the end of Part One, so I’ll soon be creating a series to house the various parts. As always, your comments are much appreciated.


	19. Noble Pursuits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for extremely dubious consent. Nothing too graphic in this chapter, just general abuse.

Following Armand's return, Ilyas set up a strict routine with him. At night he subjected Armand to the most intimate of abuses- pleasure. He took particular delight in coaxing the proud man to orgasm repeatedly even though he loathed it. Beatings followed, but never enough to warrant summoning Adair to put him back together. Ilyas wanted Armand to feel every bruise, burn, and welt and remember at all times who it was that had marked his body so.

When Ilyas was not having Armand function as his personal toy, he was making sure that the human was kept busy. Various tasks included things a basic page would do, not a knight. Tasks like oiling Ilyas's armor, performing maintenance on his gear, and assisting in the training yard during practice. Of course, his pet wasn't above such things as mucking the shit out of the animal pens, cleaning the chamber pots, and whatever tasks the hateful staff of the castle wanted to pass on to him. In that regard, Ilyas was more than willing to share his slave with the rest of the castle.

However, one of the things that the cruel Knight Captain took the most pleasure in was parading Armand about during dinner whenever the members of court assembled. Alannys especially had no problem degrading him, inflicting her chilly wrath upon him at every moment she possibly could. Her neck had since healed into a garish scar that she left uncovered so that all could see and have pity for her, which her supporters gladly showered her with. No physician had been found who could erase such a mark, much to her ire.

That evening, Alannys was tense and irritated, lashing out at the smallest of offenses. She had received news earlier that afternoon by raven that many humans in isolated pockets of the kingdom were rebelling. There were rumors of a new king in the South, though her generals asserted that they were just that- unfounded rumors. After all her generosity they had the nerve to disobey her only request… 

"More wine," Alannys snapped at Armand, who she had sitting on his knees and stripped of his shirt. His scarred back was a reminder to those who would disobey her. "And if you spill so much as a drop, I'll break the bottle over your head. You may clean the shards with your tongue."

He made no visible show of resistance, but human's posture was stiffer than normal as he rose. He took hold of the pitcher by the handle to pour it, with a stabilizing hand beneath as to minimize the chances of spillage. His shirtless state revealed fading bruises, along with that he was also healing from what looked to be the remainders of a recent whipping. It had to have been done with a switch, going off of the thin, inflamed welts left behind in neat rows along his lower back, disappearing beneath the waist of his pants. By the way he moved, he looked to be going easy on any movement having to do with his lower half in general.

Even with the marks, he was still a handsome man, lean and muscular, as he had gained back a little of the weight he had lost in the mines. More than a few of the seated nobility watched him hungrily. Armand ignored these looks. He did not desire their attention. 

At the very least, Alannys had not forced him to warm her bed since the incident. It almost made him amused that he had so thoroughly ruined her for volatile human pets, though he was ever careful to keep these thoughts to himself. Whether Ilyas was a better alternative remained uncertain. Either were equally cruel. Armand had the distinct feeling that he had merely swapped out one evil for another, but at least Ilyas lacked Alannys’s patience for long, cruel games.

Not a drop spilled. Armand set the heavy ceramic serving pitcher back down with a weighty _clink,_ gaze momentarily wandering over the crowd to the few servants, all clad in neutral colors, browns, blacks, and greys, flitting at the edges of the Hall. Adair's red hair was not there. Standing there waiting for more directives, he very much appeared a tamed dog at that moment, especially when compared to the wild thing Alannys had dragged to the hall naked and snarling those first few months.

"Such a docile thing he is now," said a noblewoman sitting close to Alannys that evening. Adair had brought it to Armand's attention over the brief times they were able to chat together that most of Alannys's court was made up of the Winter nobility, primarily because her Summer supporters couldn't handle the intense gloom of Stonehaven. This woman, Lady Wysteria was one of the only Summer nobles to stay at Alannys's side in person.

"Indeed," Alannys said, glancing at Armand and his wonderfully lithe body. Ilyas had allowed him to keep his beard, and though she believed she preferred him without, it added to his appeal in a masculine sort of way. The fact remained that she would not take him to bed again. The touch of iron was something that she would never quite recover from.

"Ilyas does wonders for the disorderly. He has a cock that can tame even the most wild of spirits." Alannys smoothed her hand down Armand's back in a caress though her nails raked down the fresh welts left from his latest beating. "His little human pet has become quite the greedy little whore." Her gaze turned canny. "In fact... it almost makes me think that he wishes to please _more_ than just Ilyas."

The suggestion rang loud and clear, clearly understood by her subjects. Many of the Court’s expressions suddenly turned very predatory.

"What if he tries to attack us at our most vulnerable?" Asked one, mustache quivering.

"He won't," Alannys said, her fingers now moving down to caress his flank. She was ready to feed him to the wolves without a care in the world. "If he doesn't want to whore himself out, I have another who would suffice. Traitors make the most wonderful pets."

She shoved him forward, reaching for her wine to quench her sudden thirst. "Go on, little dog. Pick the Lord or Lady you wish to serve tonight. Perhaps a man to satisfy your lust? Ilyas has told me so much about the noises you make when he’s inside of you. Such moaning and groaning.”

_Ilyas was a lying, raping son of a whore, and he would feed him a taste of his own cruelty someday, along with his winter queen._

His expression one of contained frustration, Armand's lip curled and he did not bother to conceal his disgust as he looked around at the faces of Alannys's so-called 'Court'. The rich, corrupt, and perverted, grown fat off of the land or hiding their inner corruption behind beautiful masks. So this was what Alannys had to offer. These were the most powerful members of Albion's elite.

There was no use resisting her. And he would not be held responsible for another's suffering at the hands of some sadistic noble if he could help it. Especially not Adair. Especially not by his own cowardice if he chose to refuse. There was only the illusion of choice, a petty mockery of the real thing.

He chose a lordling. He looked hardly more than a youth, smooth-faced and pretty, were it not for the hunger in his eyes, but he flushed pink when Armand stalked up to where he sat at one of the lower tables and made direct eye contact. The Court laughed, though none louder than Alannys, when the lad, still red-cheeked but smirking, led the human traitor back to his bedchambers.

Though the whole ordeal went against his wishes, in the grand scheme of things, it was still better than subjugating himself to the cruelty of someone with a taste for humiliation and cruelty, or worse, putting his friend into that situation instead. Armand did not mind so much to have to play the role of the human barbarian that night.

It was easy enough, mindless work to let out some of his aggression and shove someone who wanted to be shoved. He pressed his face into the pillows with a calloused hand curled around the nape of a slender neck for a few seconds longer than proprietary, then rolled the lad, breathless, gasping, and hard already through his fine trousers, onto his back. After a brusque slicking of oil, he rode the faerie to completion. It did not take that long, for which Armand was glad, and he listened to the youth's deep breathing for what felt like forever, lying there unfulfilled and burning with an anger that he dared not sate.

It was late when Armand rolled off of the bed, pulled his trousers, boots, and shirt back on in the dark as silently as he could, and let himself out of there. He walked for a while, seemingly aimless until he looked up and found himself at the door to the kitchens. Feeling filthy, and with not just sweat, he hesitated, but it seemed the only right thing to do was to open the door. His body disobeyed him anyways, and the door swung open, his feet taking him past the main chamber to the smaller room where there was made a small bed of straw beneath a table.

The red haired faerie slept curled up under a blanket on her curiously placed bed. It was her job to stoke the fire of the great oven at night to keep it from going out so every so often she would awake to tend to it before going back to sleep. The other staff were able to sleep in the servant's quarters in a different wing of the castle but not her. She didn't mind for the most part as she was often left alone during these midnight hours except for when Ilyas snooped around.

Her eyes snapped open upon hearing feet walking on the stone floor and for a brief moment she thought she overslept. She sat upright, propping herself up on one arm, and squinted into the gloom of the room to see a large figure entering. Her heart lurched in panic for a moment before she caught a glimpse of a copper hair.

The straw of her pallet rustled as Adair sat upright a bit more, half crawling out from under the table. She wore her ratty russet dress, one of two that she owned. She always made sure to be covered from the neck down and never wore just her shift. Apart from what she did not want others seeing it was always cold on the floor and the extra layer of clothing helped keep her warm.

"Armand?" Adair whispered, clutching her blanket around herself tightly. She wasn't by any means indecent but he did catch her at her most vulnerable while sleeping. "What on earth are you doing here? Do you need something?"

She was able to catch a whiff of him then. There was his signature scent which she likened to the crisp smell of pine trees and the warmth of sunlight hitting skin. It was deeply pleasant but it was often tinged with the masculine musk that was brought about by his more unsavory activities. Tonight she could scent someone other than Ilyas which made her stomach twist. She hated seeing such a fine man degraded, his body used without regard or respect. It made her furious that someone would do that to her friend.

She scooted off to the side a bit and patted the other half of her straw pallet which was not even covered with anything to keep the straw from scratching at its occupant. "Come sit. There’s room enough for the both of us. We'll share the blanket," She found herself saying and urged him to come closer.

Turning away from the fire crackling softly in the corner, Armand took a seat against the wall, resting on the end of the straw pallet that served as Adair's bed. It was rough, prickling at his skin through his clothing, but by no means had he never slept in the straw before, and more importantly, it was warm. Adair was warm, too, when she crawled onto the straw and settled only an inch or so away from him.

"I didn't mean to wake you." He said softly. It felt even more inappropriate now to disturb her from her rest, knowing who she was, and just how large the gap between their births were. And yet, that bond of kinship had strengthened since their first meeting. It startled him to discover that he _did_ consider her his friend, along with some warm glow of emotion that he was wary to identify.

The fire popped, a few sparks flying out to settle glowing upon the hard-packed earth for just a moment before they extinguished, grey ash against the grey floor. "Every time I think to myself that I've sampled all the tricks she has to give, she manages to prove me wrong." He said, and laughed hollowly. "Perhaps it is time I stopped thinking altogether. It seems to me the easier path."

The youth. Why had he lain with him? He could have chosen any of the number of beautiful women sitting around the tables, and he had chosen a man. A sound caught in his throat. Armand pressed his head back against the wall until the stone seemed to dig into the back of his skull, ruthlessly suppressing his own quiet shame. 

Adair rubbed at her sleepy eyes as Armand settled into the space next to her, bringing with him an unexpected warmth that made her want to nestle up against his side. Her stomach flip flopped a bit and she felt her pulse speed up. It was happening more and more whenever she was with the human but now it intensified as they sat there in her private little space.

She looked up at Armand, noting the pained look in his eyes that was clouded with shame. She knew how he felt. She knew that it was probably incredibly difficult for him to wake every morning and face whatever new challenges awaited him. Alannys had that way of doing things to people, of making them wither from the inside out.

She found herself reaching out and taking Armand's hand in her own rough one and held it firmly as if to give him some sort of strength. "She's evil. That's all there is to it. She will always walk on those that are weak," Adair said with a soft sigh.

“I wanted you to know, Armand… You've been good to me. Being around you… it makes me happy." She looked away, her jewel toned eyes suddenly growing moist. Before Armand had come into her life things were unbearably bleak, the grief and pain so intense that death seemed like the only way out. She exhaled loudly and blew a few errant curls from her face. "I had been contemplating death for a long time. A few times I nearly succeeded... But then you came. And however horrible it sounds of me, I had a purpose again."

Adair still didn't let go of his hand, instead she squeezed it even tighter to hide the slight trembles of emotion. "I'm sorry. You must hate me. There were so many times where if I had just sat back, you would have passed and there would have been no more pain, no more Ilyas, no more Alannys. For that, I am sorry.”

Instead of a verbal response, the rejection Adair had undoubtedly been expecting, the hand in hers tightened, fingers curling around hers; responding to the tremble of her hands. The straw rustled; fabric scraped stone, and an arm curled around her shoulders, drawing her in closer with a gentle strength left untouched by all the hardship he had endured.

They pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, sharing the warmth of their bodies as the fire crackled on the other side of the room. Armand's arms were warm, his grip gentle but there was a hint of desperation in the way he held her, the rough pad of his thumb stroking across the back of her hand as if to assure himself that she were real.

It had been too long since either of them had taken comfort in the kind touch of another, but here, alone together in the cottony shadows at the back of the kitchens, it felt safe enough to cling to one another. Just for this one moment. Armand turned his head just slightly, breathing in deep the soft scent of her hair, feeling the curls brush against his neck and face as she relaxed into him, just as he did the same to her.

"There is nothing to forgive," He murmured.

Adair sniffled a bit and was quiet a few minutes longer, not quite sure what to say to him. She ended up fiddling with the blanket some more, spreading it over both their laps. It was threadbare and patched just like everything else she owned.

She ended up very carefully resting her head on his shoulder, wanting to draw upon the deep inner strength that he seemed to have in copious amounts. It felt good being by his side. Safe and secure. Her eyes shifted down to where his thumb was rubbing the back of her hand and her breath caught. 

"Tell me something good, Armand. Perhaps a story. One with a happy ending. You know some, don't you?"

“A story.” Armand repeated, sounding thoughtful, distracted from his dark thoughts on the surface level, at least. He thought back to the last time he'd heard a story, let alone told one. If memory served him right, it had been on the road when they first set off to the war in the cold north. They had been bawdy stories around the campfires, for the most part, most of them about women. None would serve in this situation.

Still softly rubbing the back of that slim hand, Armand cast further back into his memory. He was no storyteller, but perhaps Adair would appreciate a folktale, one that any man, woman, or child raised within Anglia's borders would be familiar with. He could only hope it would not be too mundane for a lady of her birth.

"There was once a time when the sun and the moon did not meet in the sky. The days were bright, but the nights were dark, and the people feared the dark..."

***

_Fearful, the people made a great cage to capture the sun, and so trapped her in the sky. Imprisoned, she burned through the day and the night, for there was no night, and there were no stars, and she could find no rest. On the third day of her imprisonment, there came across the sky the curious, wandering moon. He saw the sun's beauty, and found himself enraptured. And so the moon made a plan to free his lady from the cruel ropes that trapped her, but after he'd broken her chains, her unleashed radiance burned his skin._

***

"...and that is why the face of the wandering moon is scarred. But on nights when the moon is full, the sun's radiance shines through him, and he is beautiful again." Adair was soft and relaxed against his side, her breathing equally gentle. He continued to hold her hand, thumb moving across the back in small circles. He did not know whether she was awake still.

Adair listened to the tale that Armand chose, enraptured by such a simple but profound story. Armand's voice was soft and soothing and she rested against him, totally relaxed.

"What a lovely tale" Adair murmured and smiled down at their joined hands. She didn't want to let him to. Her eyes closed as sleep drew closer and closer. "The moon... So beautiful. The ultimate show of love- saving the one you love at your own cost."

She glanced up at Armand with half lidded eyes and smiled sleepily. "One day, I hope that I might do such good.”


	20. Mastered

The dawn came all too early. The first stirrings of movement entered the kitchen in the form of yawning serving-women, but it was a while yet before the two figures huddled together in the corner were discovered, shortly after it came to light that the fire had died down to near-embers during the course of the night. Shortly following that, the two were awakened by a rude kick to their entwined legs.

Armand came back to consciousness with a snarl and a violent jerk, one of his hands flying out, knuckles scraping against the wall as he blinked wildly through the strands of copper red hair that had fallen across his forehead. Strangely enough, he had not let go of Adair even as he lashed out, but as he seemed to realize the situation, his arm slowly loosened, sliding from where it had been protectively draped across her shoulders.

The several curious women who had gathered. though they had initially taken a step back at the unexpected violence, tittered at Armand's reaction. The head cook scoffed, kicking at Adair's feet again as if to ensure the girl wasn't already awake. Armand's glare could have burned. "Looks like we've found ourselves a brace of lazy traitors." She said, spitting on the floor at their feet.

The kick to Adair's legs startled her awake. She looked confused for a brief moment as she looked up at the angry faces of the head cook and another kitchen woman. The sleep cleared from her head quickly after that, especially after realizing she had been sound asleep next to Armand.

"I'm so sorry!" She stammered, voice thick with sleep. Armand was bristling beside her. She could practically feel the prickle of his hackles raising. 

"You, girl- did you enjoy your night off? Good, because it's the last you'll be having in a time to come. And you, faerie-killer," She said, rounding upon Armand before he could raise his voice to speak. "You are not welcome here. Your master is looking for you."

It took Adair a few more moments to realize that the fire for the oven had gone out, something that would take hours for it to heat back up to full potential, meaning that any cooking would be delayed thanks to her. That certainly wasn't a good feeling. She left her warm spot next to Armand and crawled to her feet where the head cook cuffed her hard over the ear.

"You seem to have forgotten your place here," the cook hissed, spraying sour breath into Adair’s face. "If the queen complains I will be sure to tell her who exactly is at fault.” With that threat hanging over the girl’s head, the cook straightened, gesturing at the burnt-out fire. “Now get to work!”

Ilyas found Armand not long after that. He didn't seem too annoyed that he had a night without his favorite victim. In fact he thought it funny that the proud Armand had taken another man to bed. It seemed as though he was enjoying the taste of cock more than he thought.

"Shouldn't you still be in bed with your lover?" Ilyas inquired with a smirk. "it is rather early after all. What mischief are you up to, cocksucker?"

Armand was still in somewhat of a temper from the rude awakening and the head cook's treatment of Adair this morning. Ilyas's presence only exacerbated his irritation, and he fought to keep it from showing, for Ilyas would undoubtedly be keen to take advantage of the any opportunity for an easy beating.

His only consolation was that Ilyas did not know where he had actually spent his night. That was a relief, at least, despite the needling about his choice. It stung his battered pride on the subject, though he knew Ilyas would have had cruel words to say regardless of whom he had taken to bed.

"The lordling wished to have the bed to himself." Armand said brusquely, keeping his gaze aimed downward so that he need not meet those cold grey eyes. He might find himself doing something rash.

The lordling in question had said no such thing, but he had also been deep in the grasp of sexually-driven exhaustion by the time Armand had left his chambers. Ilyas was unlikely to know so unless he personally sought out the noble later to interrogate him. Armand found such a scenario unlikely, but he still would not put it past the wretched man.

"Mm, I'm sure he did." The Captain’s eyes flicked briefly to the doorway that Armand came out of but he said nothing more on the subject. He’d never seen the appeal before, but suddenly, the idea of forcing his dog to be with others was a highly arousing one. Ilyas wondered how he would take to being watched. Well. It was certainly food for thought. His pet didn’t seem to respond to pain, but perhaps pleasure would be the thing to unmake him.

With no warning, Ilyas backhanded Armand hard across the face. 

"The lordling wished to have the bed to himself, _Captain_ ,” He said mockingly. “Really you must have a pathetically small brain if you insist on forgetting proper respect for your master."

Behind them from the doorway of the kitchen the head cook was seen harshly shoving Adair out the door, so much so that Adair fell on her hands and knees with a squishy thud into the muck just outside the steps. "I can't stand even looking at you. Stay out of the kitchens and go be of use somewhere else!"

Ilyas watched the scene with an amused expression, taking a look at his favorite little lady victim kneeling there with a bewildered expression on her face. It shifted into something that was much more afraid as she realized Ilyas was standing there with Armand. Very carefully the girl got up to her feet, wiping dirty hands on her russet skirt and working very hard indeed not to look at Armand.

Ilyas’s eyes narrowed.

"Get yourself busy cleaning my room,” He told Adair. "I want it spotless from top to bottom. You can bring up water for a bath after that." He knew bringing up bucket after bucket up all those flights of stairs would be very draining for the girl. 

Adair gave a weak looking nod. Like she had the choice to say no. "Yes, Captain" she told Ilyas and went to get her cleaning things to take up to the bedchamber.

Ilyas turned his attention back to Armand. "We'll be leaving in a week's time. An uprising has begun in Carlisle. A human uprising I might add. You'll be assisting me in squashing it."

It took everything not to flatten Ilyas's unbearably smug face with his fists. Only knowing that it would only make things worse for both himself and Adair kept him from reacting, but anger bubbled hot and bright beneath the surface of his skin. 

Forcing himself to keep his eyes posted on Ilyas instead of Adair's retreating form, Armand stood stiffly. He had gotten much better at masking the emotions in his eyes since his return from the mines, but even through the blank mask he had summoned up, one could still perceive the hatred in his eyes. 

The anger stayed, but there was something like interest, painful, hungry interest, in his face as he received the news of the outside world. Carlisle? A seaside region. Mostly fishermen and sailing merchants. The rest of the information swiftly caught up, however, and this time, anger bled through, along with something like tortured indecision, or rather- the inability to refuse.

"Why me?" The words escaped him before he could swallow them, his tone rather more of a growl than a polite inquiry. 

"You've said it yourself. Your soldiers are stronger. Faster. You've no need of a traitor like me." The last time he'd been given a sword, he'd proved himself unworthy. But to be given a sword _again_ only to raise it against his own people would be blasphemous. He could not allow himself to do it.

Ilyas took note of the hatred brewing in Armand's eyes. They took on a stormy grey color, retaining just a bit of those blue sky depths. It seemed a part of him that Ilyas would never be able crush out of the human. How he longed for the day when that fire finally guttered out. He would master Armand yet.

"Why _you_?" Ilyas repeated, his smug expression giving way to impatience. "It appears you haven’t learned the lesson yet, cunt.”

Grabbing him by the front of his shirt, Ilyas pulled the redhead so close that their chests brushed. "Let me make it simple for you. You'll obey whatever orders are given to you without question. Do you know why that is? Because you-” With each word, he punctuated it with a poke to Armand’s chest. “Are. My. Dog. And _dogs_ do what they’re told. Does that make sense? Is that _clear_?? For example-” His voice dropped into a lower volume, hateful grey eyes burning into Armand’s blues. “-if I put an iron poker in your hand right this very moment and told you to shove it up that red haired bitch’s cunt, what would you do?”

Ilyas did not wait for Armand’s response. “You’d stick her like a pig,” He hissed.

“You’re coming to retake Carlisle whether you like it or not, little knight. For your insolence, I think I’ll take your red haired lady too.” But at the look of impotent rage in his captive's eyes, Ilyas only laughed, patting him on the cheek. “This is your life now, human. Get used to being mastered, because it’s the only thing you’re good for.”

END OF PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's that for part one. This series is by no means over, though to cut down on length, I'll be splitting them up into separate parts. Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed, and keep your eyes peeled for the second part. I've enjoyed interacting with you all so much, and appreciate all of your valuable feedback.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extremely explicit work. Warnings for violence, torture, sexual violence, and rape. Major whump. This work was originally written as a roleplay between myself and a partner, and has been edited to better fit a storytelling format.
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated!!!


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